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POEMS 

BT 

AMELIA 

(MRS.  WELBY,  OF  KENTUCKY) 

A    NEW    ENLARGED    EDITION 

ILLUSTRATED  WITH  ORIGINAL  DESIGNS  BY  ROBERT  W.  WEIR 

i     >   •    ,  >   •     >  > 
j    «    *  >      •        »  '       ,     :  *  V  »  » »  »  > 

NEW  YORK 

D. 

APPLETON  &  COMPANY,  200  BROADWAY 

PHILADELPHIA 

GEO.  S.  APPLETON,  164  CHESNUT-STREET 

M  DCCC  L 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1849, 
By   GEORGE    WELBY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Kentucky. 


;•'•.:  :••;>:••;•"  •::..::•".•.•' 


TO 


MY   BELOVED    FATHER 


THIS   VOLUME  IS  DEDICATED, 


AS     A     SLIGHT     TRIBUTE     OF     LOVE, 


AFFECTIONATE    DAUGHTER 


AMELIA 


4    O  ^  ^    ~*   ET 


PUBLISHERS'   PREFACE. 


In  presenting  to  the  public  this  enlarged  and  embellished 
edition  of  the  Poems  of  Mrs.  Welby,  the  Publishers  deem  it 
not  inappropriate  to  express  their  personal  satisfaction  and 
acknowledgments  for  the  almost  unexampled  favor  her  works 
have  met  with  from  all  parts  of  the  country.  Seven  editions 
of  her  Poems  have  already  passed  through  the  press  within  a 
short  time,  and  their  popularity  remains  still  undiminished. 
It  is  a  source  of  gratification  to  the  Publishers  that  they  have 
been  the  humble  instrument  of  making  so  widely  known  the 
beauties  of  this  poetry  of  the  West,  and  that  they  are  enabled 
to  present  a  volume  illustrated  by  one  of  our  most  distin- 
guished artists,  Robert  W.  Weir,  Esq.,  thus  rendering  it  still 
more  worthy  of  preservation  among  the  choice  collections  of 
our  American  Literature. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

DESIGNED  BY  ROBERT  W.  WEEEL 


WHEN  SOFT  STARS,  (Frontispiece.) 
PORTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

THE  RAINBOW To  face  page  9. 

MELODIA "  "  44. 

THE  FREED  BIRD "  "  82. 

THE  SEA-SHELL  "  "  161. 

THE  MOTHER  "  "  215. 


CONTENTS 


The  Rainbow, .       •        9 

I  weep  not, 12 

The  Summer  Bieds,        .....  .16 

I  have  a  fair  and  gentle  friend,     .  .  .  20 

0  !    DARK  IS  the  gloom, .24 

The  Green  Mossy  Bank, 26 

Musings, .28 

To  the  Sky-Lark, 33 

To  a  Lovely  Girl, .  .38 

Lines  to  a  Lady, 40 

Melodia, .  .44 

Lines  written  on  a  Miniature, 48 

i  know  that  thy  spirit,         ...  ...  51 

When  shines  the  Star, 54 

My  Sisters, ...  58 

The  First  Death  of  the  Household,  62 

The  Maiden's  First  Love,      ...  66 

The  Stars, 69 

Stanzas, 74 

Time, 79 

The  Freed  Bird, 82 

The  Captive  Sailor-Boy, 86 

The  Golden  Ringlet, 90 

The  Cottage  Band, 94 

The  Little  Step-Son, .97 

To   A   HuMMING-BlRD, 99 

The  Broken-hearted, 102 

The  Young  Lovers, 105 

The  Blind  Girl's  Lament, 108 

To , 112 

He  came  too  late, 115 

The  American  Sword, 119 

Viola, 122 


8  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

To  the  Evening  Stab, 124 

Breathe  not  a  sigh, 127 

The  Dying  Girl, 130 

The  Neglected  Harp 136 

The  Stars, .        .                 ...  139 

The  Dew-Drop, ....  142 

The  Sleeping  Maiden, 144 

My  own  Native  Land, 147 

To  Mrs.  S.  J.  P , 149 

The  Dying  Mother, 151 

Sweet  be  thy  dreams, 156 

The  Violet's  Song  to  the  Lost  Fairy, 158 

The  Sea-Shell, 161 

To  Mrs.  L , 165 

Lines  on  seeing  a  beautiful  little  Girl  gathering  Flowers,        .        .  167 

The  Dreamers, 171 

May, 175 

Pulpit  Eloquence, 179 

The  Last  Interview, 185 

When  soft  stars, 189 

o!  had  we  only  met, 191 

To  Amanda, 194 

Music, 196 

The  Bride, 199 

The  Mournful  Heart, ♦       .  203 

The  Parted  Year, .  206 

i  never  have  loved  thee,          212 

On  seeing  an  Infant  sleeping  on  its  Mother's  Bosom,        .        .        .        .215 

The  Presence  of  God, 217 

I  know  thee  not, 222 

Thou  canst  not  forget  me, 225 

Hopeless  Love, 228 

The  Bereaved, 232 

To  Lucy  during  her  Absence, 235 

On  entering  the  Mammoth  Cave, 237 

Sudden  Death, 245 

I  saw  thee  but  a  moment, 249 

The  Evening  Skies, 252 

The  Old  Maid, 255 

The  Brother's  Lament, 259 

One  word  with  thee, 263 


':  m  Mil  iajr  . 


emwjbu»  &  » 


•    •  .  • 


>    • 
>  >    >    > 


POEMS. 


THE  RAINBOW. 

I  sometimes  have  thoughts,  in  my  loneliest  hours, 
That  lie  on  my  heart  like  the  dew  on  the  flowers, 
Of  a  ramble  I  took  one  bright  afternoon 
When '  my  heart  was  as  light  as  a  blossom  in  June  ; 
The  green  earth  was  moist  with  the  late  fallen  showers, 
The  breeze  fluttered  down  and  blew  open  the  flowers, 
While  a  single  white  cloud,  to  its  haven  of  rest 
On  the  white  wing  of  peace,  floated  off  in  the  west. 

As  I  threw  back  my  tresses  to  catch  the  cool  breeze, 
That  scattered  the  rain-drops  and  dimpled  the  seas, 
Far  up  the  blue  sky  a  fair  rainbow  unrolled 
Its  soft-tinted  pinions  of  purple  and  gold. 


10  THE    RAINBOW. 

'Twas  born  in  a  moment,  yet,  quick  as  its  birth, 
It  had  stretched  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth, 
And,  fair  as  an  angel,  it  floated  as  free, 
With  a  wing  on  the  earth  and  a  wing  on  the  sea. 

How  calm  was  the  ocean !   how  gentle  its  swell ! 
Like  a  woman's  soft  bosom  it  rose  and  it  fell; 
While  its  light  sparkling  waves,  stealing  laughingly  o'er, 
When  they  saw  the  fair  rainbow,  knelt  down  on  the  shore. 
No  sweet  hymn  ascended,  no  murmur  of  prayer, 
Yet  I  felt  that  the  spirit  of  worship  was  there, 
And  bent  my  young  head,  in  devotion  and  love, 
'Neath  the  form  of  the  angel,  that  floated  above. 

How  wide  was  the  sweep  of  its  beautiful  wings ! 
How  boundless  its  circle  !   how  radiant  its  rings ! 
If  I  looked  on  the  sky,  'twas  suspended  in  air ; 
If  I  looked  on  the  ocean,  the  rainbow  was  there ; 
Thus  forming  a  girdle,  as  brilliant  and  whole 
As  the  thoughts  of  the  rainbow,  that  circled  my  soul. 
Like  the  wing  of  the  Deity,  calmly  unfurled, 
It  bent  from  the  cloud  and  encircled  the  world. 


THE     RAINBOW.  11 

There  are  moments,  I  think,  when  the  spirit  receives 
Whole  volumes  of  thought  on  its  unwritten  leaves, 
When  the  folds  of  the  heart  in  a  moment  unclose 
Like  the  innermost  leaves  from  the  heart  of  a  rose. 
And  thus,  when  the  rainbow  had  passed  from  the  sky, 
The  thoughts  it  awoke  were  too  deep  to  pass  by ; 
It  left  my  full  soul,  like  the  wing  of  a  dove, 
All  fluttering  with  pleasure,  and  fluttering  with  love. 

I  know  that  each  moment  of  rapture  or  pain 
But  shortens  the  links  in  life's  mystical  chain ; 
I  know  that  my  form,  like  that  bow  from  the  wave, 
Must  pass  from  the  earth,  and  lie  cold  in  the  grave ; 
Yet  O  !  when  death's  shadows  my  bosom  encloud, 
When  I  shrink  at  the  thought  of  the  coffin  and  shroud, 
May  Hope,  like  the  rainbow,  my  spirit  enfold 
In  her  beautiful  pinions  of  purple  and  gold. 


"I  WEEP  NOT," 

I  weep  not  as  I  wept 

When  first  they  laid  thee  low; 

My  sorrow  all  too  deep  is  kept 
To  melt  like  common  wo ; 
Nor  do  my  lips  e'er  part 
With  whispers  of  thy  name, 

But  thou  art  shrined  in  this  hushed  heart, 
And  that  is  all  the  same. 

I  could  be  happy  now, 
Had  memory  flown  with  thee, 
But  I  still  hear  a  whisper  low, 
.     And  memory  will  not  flee ; 


"I    WEEP     NOT."  13 

A  whisper  that  doth  tell 
Of  thee,  and  thee  alone, 
A  memory,  like  the  ocean-shell, 
Forever  making  moan. 

For  how  can  I  forget 

Thine  eye  of  softest  brown, 
With  its  pale  lid,  just  touched  with  jet, 

And  always  drooping  down ; 

And  thy  sweet  form  of  grace, 

That  went  to  rest  too  soon, 
And  the  turning  up  of  thy  young  face 

Beneath  the  placid  moon  ! 

I  sometimes  think  thy  hand 

Is  on  my  forehead  pressed, 
And  almost  feel  thy  tresses,  fanned 

Across  my  beating  breast, 

And  catch  the  sunny  flow 

Of  thy  mantle  on  the  air, 
And  turn  to  see  if  it  is  so — 

Alas  !  thou  art  not  there  ! 


14 


And  I  wander  out  alone 

Beside  the  singing  rills, 
When  nothing  but  the  wind's  low  tone 

Comes  stealing  down  the  hills ; 

And  while  along  the  deep 

The  moonbeams  softly  shine, 
My  silent  soul  goes  forth  to  keep 

Its  blessed  tryste  with  thine. 

I  weep  not  though  thou'rt  laid 
In  such  a  lone  dark  place, 

Thou,  who  didst  live  without  a  shade, 
To  cloud  thy  sweet  young  face  ; 
For  now  thy  spirit  sings 
Where  angel-ones  have  trod, 

Veiling  their  faces  'neath  their  wings 
Around  the  throne  of  God. 

Thy  faults  were  slight  and  few 
As  human  faults  could  be, 
And  thy  virtues  were  as  many  too 
As  gems  beneath  the  sea ; 


"I     WEEP     NOT."  15 

And  thy  thoughts  did  heavenward  roam 

Until,  like  links  of  gold, 
They  drew  thee  up  to  thy  blue  home 

Within  the  Saviour's  fold. 


THE  SUMMER  BIRDS. 

Sweet  warblers  of  the  sunny  hours, 

Forever  on  the  wing — 
I  love  them  as  I  love  the  flowers, 

The  sunlight  and  the  spring. 
They  come  like  pleasant  memories 

In  summer's  joyous  time, 
And  sing  their  gushing  melodies 

As  I  would  sing  a  rhyme. 

In  the  green  and  quiet  places, 
Where  the  golden  sunlight  falls, 

We  sit  with  smiling  faces 
To  list  their  silver  calls. 


THE    SUMMER     BIRDS.  17 

And  when  their  holy  anthems 

Come  pealing  through  the  air, 
Our  hearts  leap  forth  to  meet  them 

With  a  blessing  and  a  prayer. 

Amid  the  morning's  fragrant  dew, 

Amid  the  mists  of  even, 
They  warble  on  as  if  they  drew 

Their  music  down  from  heaven. 
How  sweetly  sounds  each  mellow  note 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
When  dying  zephyrs  rise  and  float 

Like  lovers'  sighs  away  ! 

Like  shadowy  spirits  seen  at  eve, 

Among  the  tombs  they  glide, 
Where  sweet  pale  forms,  for  which  we  grieve, 

Lie  sleeping  side  by  side. 
They  break  with  song  the  solemn  hush 

Where  peace  reclines  her  head, 
And  link  their  lays  with  mournful  thoughts, 

That  cluster  round  the  dead. 


18  THE     SUMMER    BIRDS. 

For  never  can  my  soul  forget 

The  loved  of  other  years ; 
Their  memories  fill  my  spirit  yet — 

I've  kept  them  green  with  tears ; 
And  their  singing  greets  my  heart  at  times 

As  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Though  their  music  and  their  loveliness 

Is  ever  o'er — forever  o'er. 

And  often,  when  the  mournful  night 

Comes  with  a  low  sweet  tune, 
And  sets  a  star  on  every  height 

And  one  beside  the  moon, 
When  not  a  sound  of  wind  or  wave 

The  holy  stillness  mars, 
I  look  above  and  strive  to  trace 

Their  dwellings  in  the  stars. 

The  birds  of  summer  hours — 

They  bring  a  gush  of  glee 
To  the  child  among  the  dewy  flowers, 

To  the  sailor  on  the  sea. 


THE    SUMMER    BIRDS.  19 

We  hear  their  thrilling  voices 

In  their  swift  and  airy  flight. 
And  the  inmost  heart  rejoices 

With  a  calm  and  pure  delight. 

In  the  stillness  of  the  starlight  hours, 

When  I  am  with  the  dead, 
O  !   may  they  flutter  mid  the  flowers. 

That  blossom  o'er  my  head, 
And  pour  their  songs  of  gladness  forth 

In  one  melodious  strain, 
O'er  lips,  whose  broken  melody 

Shall  never  sing  again. 


I  HAVE  A  FAIR  AND  GENTLE  FRIEND 

I  have  a  fair  and  gentle  friend, 

Whose  heart  is  pure,  I  ween, 
As  ever  was  a  maiden's  heart 

At  joyous  seventeen  ; 
She  dwells  among  us  like  a  star, 

That,  from  its  bower  of  bliss, 
Looks  down,  yet  gathers  not  a  stain 

From  aught"  it  sees  in  this. 

I  do  not  mean  that  flattery 

Has  never  reached  her  ear ; 
I  only  say  its  syren  song 

Has  no  effect  on  her ; 

14* 


1    HAVE    A    FAIR    AND    GENTLE    FRIEND.  ?1 

For  she  is  all  simplicity, 

A  creature  soft  and  mild — 
Though  on  the  eve  of  womanhood, 

In  heart  a  very  child. 

And  yet,  within  the  misty  depths 

Of  her  dark  dreamy  eyes, 
A  shadowy  something,  like  deep  thought, 

In  tender  sadness  lies ; 
For  though  her  glance  still  shines  as  bright 

As  in  her  childish  years, 
Its  wildness  and  its  lustre,  now, 

Are  softened  down  by  tears :  — 

Tears,  that  steal  not  from  hidden  springs 

Of  sorrow  and  regret, 
For  none  but  lovely  feelings 

In  her  gentle  breast  have  met, 
For  every  tear  that  gems  her  eye, 

From  her  young  bosom  flows 
Like  dew-drops  from  a  golden  star, 

Or  perfume  from  a  rose. 


22  l    HAVE    A    FAIR    AND    GENTLE    FRIEND 

For  e'en  in  life's  delicious  spring, 

We  oft  have  memories 
That  throw  around  our  sunny  hearts 

A  transient  cloud  of  sighs ; 
For  a  wondrous  change  within  the  heart 

At  that  sweet  time  is  wrought, 
When  on  the  heart  is  softly  laid 

A  spell  of  deeper  thought. 

i  And  she  has  reached  that  lovely  time, 

That  sweet  poetic  age, 
When  to  the  eye  each  floweret's  leaf 

Seems  like  a  glowing  page  ; 
For  a  beauty  and  a  mystery 

About  the  heart  are  thrown, 
When  childhood's  merry  laughter  yields 

To  girlhood's  softer  tone. 

I  do  not  know  if  round  her  heart 
Love  yet  hath  thrown  his  wing, 

I  rather  think  she's  like  myself 
An  April-hearted  thing ; 


I    HAVE    A    FAIR    AND    GENTLE    FRIEND.  23 

I  only  know  that  she  is  fair, 

And  loves  me  passing  well ; 
But  who  this  gentle  maiden  is 

I  feel  not  free  to  tell. 


0!  DARK  IS  THE  GLOOM. 

O  !  dark  is  the  gloom  o'er  my  young  spirit  stealing  ! 

Then  why  should  I  linger  where  others  are  gay  ! 
The  smile  that  I  wear,  is  but  worn  for  concealing 

A  heart  that  is  wasting  in  sadness  away  ! 

How  oft  have  I  thought,  when  the  last  light  has  faded 
From  off  the  clear  waves  of  some  soft-flowing  stream, 

That,  like  its  bright  waters,  my  last  hopes  were  shaded 
By  darkness,  uneheered  by  the  light  of  a  beam. 

O !  could  I  but  fly  from  this  false  world  forever, 
Where  those  whom  I  trust  are  the  first  to  betray, 

From  the  cold  and  the  fickle  my  young  heart  I'd  sever, 
Ere  they  steal  all  its  bloom  and  its  sweetness  away. 


O!     DARK     IS     THE     GLOOM.  25 

I'd  seek,  in  some  orb  of  the  blessed  above  me, 
The  peace  that  on  earth  I  can  never  receive ; 

The  spirits  that  dwell  in  that  bright  orb  would  love  me, 
For  they  are  too  gentle  to  wound  or  deceive. 

O  !  why  should  the  hearts  of  the  purest  be  shaken, 
While  calmly  reposing  'neath  love's  sunny  beam? 

If  they  slumber  so  sweetly,  why  should  they  awaken 
To  muse  on  the  past,  and  to  weep  o'er  a  dream  ? 


THE  GREEN  MOSSY  BANK  WHERE  THE  BUTTER- 
CUPS GREW. 

O  my  thoughts  are  away  where  my  infancy  flew, 
Near  the  green  mossy  bank  where  the  buttercups  grew, 
Where  the  bright  silver  fountain  eternally  played, 
First  laughing  in  sunshine,  then  singing  in  shade ; 
There  oft  in  my  childhood  I've  wandered  in  play, 
Flinging  up  the  cool  drops  of  the  light  falling  spray, 
Till  my  small  naked  feet  were  all  bathed  in  bright  dew, 
As  I  played  on  the  bank  where  the  buttercups  grew. 

How  softly  that  green  bank  sloped  down  from  the  hill 
To  the  spot  where  the  fountain  grew  suddenly  still ! 
How  cool  was  the  shadow  the  long  branches  gave, 
As  they  hung  from  the  willow  and  dipped  in  the  wave  ! 


THE  GREEN  MOSSY  BANK,  ETC.       27 

And  then,  each  pale  lily,  that  slept  on  the  stream, 
Rose  and  fell  with  the  wave,  as  if  stirred  by  a  dream ! 
While  my  home  'mid  the  vine-leaves  rose  soft  on  my  view, 
As  I  played  on  the  bank  where  the  buttercups  grew. 

The  beautiful  things  !  how  I  watched  them  unfold, 
Till  they  lifted  their  delicate  vases  of  gold  ! 
O,  never  a  spot  since  those  days  have  I  seen 
With  leaves  of  such  freshness  and  flowers  of  such  sheen  ! 
How  glad  was  my  spirit !  for  then  there  was  naught 
To  burden  its  wing,  save  some  beautiful  thought 
Breaking  up  from  its  depths  with  each  wild  wind  that  blew 
O'er  the  green  mossy  bank  where  the  buttercups  grew. 

The  paths  I  have  trod  1  would  quickly  retrace, 
Could  I  win  back  the  gladness,  that  looked  from  my  fao 
As  I  cooled  my  warm  lip  in  that  fountain,  I  love 
With  a  spirit  as  pure  as  the  wing  of  a  dove — 
Could  I  wander  again  where  my  forehead  was  starred 
With  the  beauty  that  dwelt  in  my  bosom  unmarred, 
And,  calm  as  a  child  in  the  starlight  and  dew, 
Fall  asleep  on  the  bank  where  the  buttercups  grew. 


MUSINGS. 

I  wandered  out  one  summer-night, 

'Twas  when  my  years  were  few 
The  wind  was  singing  in  the  light. 

And  I  was  singing  too ; 
The  sunshine  lay  upon  the  hill, 

The  shadow  in  the  vale, 
And  here  and  there  a  leaping  rill 

Was  laughing  on  the  gale. 

One  fleecy  cloud  upon  the  air 
Was  all  that  met  my  eyes ; 

It  floated  like  an  angel  there 
Between  me  and  the  skies ; 


MUSINGS.  29 

I  clapped  my  hands  and  warbled  wild, 

As  here  and  there  I  flew, 
For  I  was  but  a  careless  child 

And  did  as  children  do. 

The  waves  came  dancing  o'er  the  sea 

In  bright  and  glittering  bands  ; 
Like  little  children,  wild  with  glee, 

They  linked  their  dimpled  hands — 
They  linked  their  hands,  but,  ere  I  caught 

Their  sprinkled  drops  of  dew, 
They  kissed  my  feet,  and,  quick  as  thought, 

Away  the  ripples  flew. 

The  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flew  by, 

As  lightly  and  as  free ; 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Ten  thousand  on  the  sea ; 
For  every  wave  with  dimpled  face, 

That  leaped  upon  the  air, 
Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace, 

And  held  it  trembling  there. 

3* 


30  MUSINGS. 

The  young  moon  too  with  upturned  sides 

Her  mirrored  beauty  gave, 
And,  as  a  bark  at  anchor  rides. 

She  rode  upon  the  wave ; 
The  sea  was  like  the  heaven  above, 

As  perfect  and  as  whole, 
Save  that  it  seemed  to  thrill  with  love 

As  thrills  the  immortal  soul. 

The  leaves,  by  spirit-voices  stirred, 

Made  murmurs  on  the  air, 
Low  murmurs,  that  my  spirit  heard 

And  answered  with  a  prayer ; 
For  'twas  upon  that  dewy  sod, 

Beside  the  moaning  seas, 
I  learned  at  first  to  worship  God 

And  sing  such  strains  as  these. 

The  flowers,  all  folded  to  their  dreams, 
Were  bowed  in  slumber  free 

By  breezy  hills  and  murmuring  streams. 
Where'er  they  chanced  to  be ; 


MUSINGS. 

No  guilty  tears  had  they  to  weep, 

No  sins  to  be  forgiven ; 
They  closed  their  leaves  and  went  to  sleep 

'Neath  the  blue  eye  of  heaven. 

No  costly  robes  upon  them  shone, 

No  jewels  from  the  seas, 
Yet  Solomon,  upon  his  throne, 

Was  ne'er  arrayed  like  these  ; 
And  just  as  free  from  guilt  and  art 

Were  lovely  human  flowers, 
Ere  sorrow  set  her  bleeding  heart 

On  this  fair  world  of  ours. 

I  heard  the  laughing  wind  behind 

A-playing  with  my  hair ; 
The  breezy  fingers  of  the  wind — 

How  cool  and  moist  tney  were  ! 
I  heard  the  night-bird  warbling  o'er 

Its  soft  enchanting  strain ; 
I  never  heard  such  sounds  before, 

And  never  shall  again. 


31 


32  MUSINGS. 

Then  wherefore  weave  such  strains  as  these 

And  sing  them  day  by  day, 
When  every  bird  upon  the  breeze 

Can  sing  a  sweeter  lay  ! 
I'd  give  the  world  for  their  sweet  art, 

The  simple,  the  divine — 
I'd  give  the  world  to  melt  one  heart 

As  they  have  melted  mine. 


TO  THE  SKY-LARK. 

Thou  little  bird,  thou  lov'st  to  dwell 

Beneath  the  summer  leaves  ! 
The  sunlight  round  thy  mossy  cell 

A  golden  halo  weaves ; 
And  the  sweet  dews,  where'er  we  pass, 
Like  living  diamonds  gem  the  grass, 

And  round  the  mossy  eaves 
The  twittering  swallow  circling  flies, 
As  happy  as  the  laughing  skies. 


Soft  as  a  bride,  the  rosy  dawn 
From  dewy  sleep  doth  rise, 

And,  bathed  in  blushes,  hath  withdrawn 
The  mantle  from  her  eyes ; 


34  TO     THE     SKY-LARK. 

And,  with  her  orbs  dissolved  in  dew, 
Bends  like  an  angel  softly  through 

The  blue-pavilioned  skies. 
Then  up,  and  pour  thy  mellow  lay, 
To  greet  the  young  and  radiant  day  I 


Hark  !  now  with  low  and  fluttering  start, 

The  sky-lark  soars  above, 
And  from  her  full  melodious  heart 

She  pours  her  strains  of  love  ; 
And  now  her  quivering  wings  fling  back 
The  golden  light  that  floods  her  track, 

Now  scarcely  seems  to  move, 
But  floats  awhile  on  waveless  wings, 
Then  soars  away,  and,  soaring,  sings. 


Bird  of  the  pure  and  dewy  morn  ! 

How  soft  thy  heavenward  lay 
Floats  up,  where  light  and  life  are  born 

Around  the  rosy  day ! 


TO     THE     SKY-LARK.  35 

And,  as  the  balm  that  fills  the  hour 
Lies  soft  upon  each  waving  flower, 

The  happy  wind  at  play- 
Tells,  as  its  voice  goes  laughing  by, 
The  lark  is  singing  in  the  sky. 


When  shall  thy  fearless  wing  find  rest, 

Bird  of  the  dewy  hours  ? 
When  wilt  thou  seek  thy  little  nest, 

Close  hid  among  the  flowers  ? 
Not  till  the  bright  clouds,  one  by  one, 
Are  marshalled  round  the  setting  sun, 

In  heaven's  celestial  bowers, 
Shall  the  old  forest  round  thee  fling 
Its  mournful  shades,  O  lonely  thing  ! 


Lonely  !  and  did  I  call  thee  lone  ? 

'Twas  but  a  careless  word : 
The  round  blue  heaven  is  all  thine  own, 

O  free  and  happy  bird  ! 


36  TO     THE     SKY-LARK. 

Wherever  laughs  a  singing  rill, 
Or  points  to  heaven  a  verdant  hill, 
Thy  waving  wing  hath  stirred  ; 
For  all  sweet  things,  where'er  they  be, 
Are  like  familiar  friends  to  thee. 


Could  I,  O  living  lute  of  heaven  ! 

But  learn  to  act  thy  part, 
And  use  the  gift  so  freely  given, 

That  floods  my  inmost  heart ; 
Each  morn,  my  melting  strains  of  love 
Should  rise  like  thine  to  Him  above, 

Who  made  thee  what  thou  art, 
And  spread  abroad  each  waving  tree, 
For  thee,  O  little  bird  !  for  thee. 


And  shall  the  poet  envy  thee, 
Bird  of  the  quivering  wing, 

Whose  soul  immortal,  swift,  and  free, 
Should  ever  soar  and  sing  ? 


TO     THE     SKY-LARK.  37 

Predestined  for  a  loftier  flight, 
The  spirit,  filled  with  heavenly  light, 
From  this  cold  earth  shall  spring, 
And  soar  where  thou  canst  never  roam, 
Bird  of  the  blue  and  breezy  dome  ! 


O !  if  our  hearts  were  never  stirred, 

By  harsher  sounds  than  these — 
The  low  sweet  singing  of  a  bird, 

The  murmur  of  the  breeze, — 
How  soft  would  glide  our  fleeting  hours, 
Blessed  as  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers, 

And  calm  as  summer  seas  ! 
Linked  hand  in  hand  with  Love  and  Hope 
We'd  wander  down  life's  flowery  slope. 


TO  A  LOVELY  GIRL. 

Thou  art  not  beautiful,  yet  thy  young  face 

Makes  up  in  sweetness,  what  it  lacks  in  grace; 

Thou  art  not  beautiful,  yet  thy  blue  eyes 

Steal  o'er  the  heart  like  sunshine  o'er  the  skies ; 

Theirs  is  the  mild  and  intellectual  ray, 

That  to  the  inmost  spirit  wins  its  way ; 

Theirs  are  the  beams,  that  full  upon  you  roll, 

Surprising  all  the  senses  and  the  soul ; 

For  O,  when,  pure  as  heaven's  serenest  skies, 

Thy  timid  soul  sits  pleading  in  thine  eyes, 

The  humid  beams  that  'neath  thine  eyelids  steal 

Can  softly  teach  the  coldest  heart  to  feel ; 

For  Heaven,  that  gives  to  thee  each  mental  grace, 

Hath  stamped  the  angel  on  thy  sweet  young  face. 

O  !  while  the  pearl  of  peace  securely  dwells 

Deep  in  thy  tender  heart's  ambrosial  cells, 


TO     A     LOVELY     GIRL.  39 

While  virtue  sheds  around  thy  virgin  name 
A  light  more  lovely  than  the  light  of  fame, 
Thy  sweet  simplicity,  thy  graceful  ease, 
Shall  please  even  more  than  beauty  e'er  can  please ; 
Thy  heart  of  softness  and  thy  soul  refined 
Shall  charm  and  win  the  most  fastidious  mind  : 
And,  as  for  me,  where'er  my  footsteps  wend, 
My  heart  brim  full  of  thee,  my  happy  friend  ! 
Shall  pine,  when  musing  on  thy  sweet  young  face, 
Thine  airy  footstep,  and  thy  breezy  grace, 
To  lay  a  soft  hand  'mid  thy  trembling  curls 
And  bless  thee  as  the  loveliest  of  girls. 


LINES-TO  A  LADY. 

Lady  !  my  mountain-pathway  wends 

Where  thou  wilt  never  dwell ; 
And  now  to  thee,  and  all  my  friends, 

I  wave  a  last  farewell ! 
Far  in  the  dim  and  distant  West 

On  fair  Kentucky's  shore, 
Still  dwell  the  friends  who  love  me  best, 

And  one,  whom  I  adore ; 
And  there,  where  fairy  footsteps  rove, 

Entombed  among  the  flowers 
Still  sleeps  the  friend  I  used  to  love 

In  my  young  happy  hours. 


LINES TO     A     LADY.  4.1 

Ask  you  if  she  was  young  and  fair  ? 

Her  charms  can  ne'er  be  told  ; 
The  trembling  lustre  of  her  hair 

Was  radiant,  radiant  gold. 
Her  mouth  was  like  a  rose-bud,  wet 

In  summer's  softest  showers ; 
Her  eyes  among  the  stars  seemed  set, 

Her  feet  among  the  flowers ; 
Her  voice  was  like  the  softest  flow 

Of  some  melodious  breeze  ; 
Yes,  she  was  young  and  fair,  but  O ! 

Her  charms  were  more  than  these. 


O,  how  I  loved  her !  yet,  methinks, 

Should  friendship's  glittering  chain 
Unite  in  bliss  its  broken  links, 

Around  my  heart  again, 
Those  soft  and  melting  orbs  of  thine, 

That  sparkle  as  they  burn, 
From  this  too  tender  heart  of  mine 

Would  meet  a  soft  return ; 

4* 


42  LINES TO     A     LADY. 

For,  lady !  till  that  first  sweet  even, 
You  stole  within  my  view, 

My  melting  heart  to  her  had  given 
The  softest  throbs  it  drew. 

0,  could  thy  glowing  fancy  trace 

The  form,  my  fancy  sees — 
The  ringlets  lifted  from  her  face 

By  every  passing  breeze ; 
The  clearness  of  her  ample  brow, 

Her  orbs  of  hazel  hue 
Soft  melting  on  thee — even  thou 

Wouldst  love  and  mourn  her  too  ! 
She  lived  as  lives  a  peaceful  dove ; 

She  died  as  blossoms  die ; 
And  now  her  spirit  floats  above, 

A  seraph  in  the  sky. 

Farewell !  I  ask  no  vow  of  thine, 

I  feel  no  foolish  fears ; 
For  if  thy  heart  be  formed,  like  mine, 

For  softness  and  for  tears. 


LINES TO     A     LADY.  43 

Each  whisper  of  the  twilight  breeze, 

Each  murmur  of  the  sea, 
Will  fill  thy  heart  with  thoughts  like  these — 

Will  fill  it  full  of  me  ; 
Each  floating  cloud,  each  trembling  star, 

Will  tell  a  tale  of  one, 
Who  dwells  from  thee  and  thine  afar, 

Beneath  the  setting  sun. 


MELODIA, 

I  met,  once  in  my  girlish  hours, 

A  creature,  soft  and  warm ; 
Her  cottage  bonnet,  filled  with  flowers, 

Hung  swinging  on  her  arm  ; 
Her  voice  was  sweet  as  the  voice  of  Love, 

And  her  teeth  were  pure  as  pearls, 
While  her  forehead  lay,  like  a  snow-white  dove, 

In  a  nest  of  nut-brown  curls  ; 
She  was  a  thing  unknown  to  fame — 
Melodia  was  her  strange  sweet  name. 

I  never  saw  an  eye  so  bright 

And  yet  so  soft  as  hers  ; 
It  sometimes  swam  in  liquid  light, 

And  sometimes  swam  in  tears  ; 


•     • 


•     •    >  •    • 


XftflRIkOJEIEA 


MELODIA.  45 


[t  seemed  a  beauty,  set  apart 

For  softness  and  for  sighs ; 
But  O !  Melodia's  melting  heart 

Was  softer  than  her  eyes — 
For  they  were  only  formed  to  spread 
The  softness,  from  her  spirit  shed. 

I've  gazed  on  many  a  brighter  face, 

But  ne'er  on  one  for  years, 
Where  beauty  left  so  soft  a  trace 

As  it  had  left  on  hers. 
But  who  can  paint  the  spell,  that  wove 

A  brightness  round  the  whole  ? 
'Twould  take  an  angel  from  above 

To  paint  the  immortal  soul — 
To  trace  the  light,  the  inborn  grace, 
The  spirit,  sparkling  o'er  her  face. 

Her  bosom  was  a  soft  retreat 

For  love,  and  love  alone, 
And  yet  her  heart  had  never  beat 

To  Love's  delicious  tone. 


46  MELODIA. 

It  dwelt  within  its  circle  free 
From  tender  thoughts  like  these, 

Waiting  the  little  deity, 

As  the  blossom  waits  the  breeze 

Before  it  throws  the  leaves  apart 

And  trembles,  like  the  love-touched  heart 

She  was  a  creature,  strange  as  fair, 

First  mournful  and  then  wild — 
Now  laughing  on  the  clear  bright  air 

As  merry  as  a  child, 
Then,  melting  down,  as  soft  as  even 

Beneath  some  new  control, 
She'd  throw  her  hazel  eyes  to  heaven 

And  sing  with  all  her  soul, 
In  tones,  as  rich  as  some  young  bird's, 
Warbling  her  own  delightful  words. 

Melodia  !  O  how  soft  thy  darts, 
How  tender  and  how  sweet ! 

Thy  song  enchained  a  thousand  hearts 
And  drew  them  to  thy  feet ; 


MELODIA.  47 

And,  as  thy  bright  lips  sang,  they  caught 

So  beautiful  a  ray, 
That,  as  I  gazed,  I  almost  thought 

The  spirit  of  thy  lay 
Had  left,  while  melting  on  the  air, 
Its  sweet  expression  painted  there. 

Sweet  vision  of  that  starry  even  ! 

Thy  virgin  beauty  yet, 
Next  to  the  blessed  hope  of  heaven, 

Is  in  my  spirit  set. 
It  is  a  something,  shrined  apart, 

A  light  from  memory,  shed, 
To  live  until  this  tender  heart, 

On  which  it  lives,  is  dead — 
Reminding  me  of  brighter  hours, 
Of  summer  eves  and  summer  flowers. 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  A  MINIATURE. 

This  is  the  pictured  likeness  of  my  love  ! 

How  true  to  life  !  it  seems  to  breathe  and  move  ! 

Fire,  love,  and  sweetness  o'er  each  feature  melt, 

The  face  expressing  all  the  spirit  felt ! 

Here,  while  I  gaze  within  those  large  dark  eyes, 

I  almost  see  the  living  spirit  rise ; 

While  lights  and  shadows,  all  harmonious,  glow, 

And  heavenly  radiance  settles  on  the  brow. 

And  then,  that  mouth !  how  tranquil  its  repose ! 

Sleeping  in  fragrance  like  a  slumbering  rose, 

It  seems  the  ruby  gate  of  love  and  bliss, 

Just  formed  to  murmur  sighs,  to  smile,  and  kiss. 

To  what  a  lofty  height  can  art  arrive  ! 

This  glorious  face,  though  lifeless,  seems  alive ; 


ON    A     MINIATURE.  49 

The  lifted  lash,  the  shining  chestnut  hair, 

Like  nature,  trembling  on  the  ambient  air. 

When  o'er  his  task  the  painter  sat  apart, 

On  this  loved  face  exhausting  all  his  art, 

What  were  his  thoughts,  when,  in  the  magic  strife, 

He  saw  each  feature  struggling  into  life, 

When  every  kindling  glance,  and  manly  grace, 

Caught  from  the  moving  form,  and  breathing  face 

Beneath  his  touch,  like  soft  enchantment  stole, 

And  on  the  ivory  smiled  the  living  soul ! 

Flushed  with  delight,  in  that  triumphant  hour, 

His  heart  expanded  like  an  opening  flower ; 

His  hopes  on  airy  wings  were  lightly  raised, 

And  all  his  soul  exulted  as  he  gazed. 

But  ah !  such  thrilling  joys  are  known  to  few, 

They  are  the  painter's  meed,  the  poet's  due. 

And  O  !  how  sweet  the  bliss  such  joys  impart, 

Although  their  very  raptures  break  the  heart ! 

What,  though  the  poet,  bending  o'er  his  lyre, 

Like  his  own  songs,  in  sweetness  may  expire  ! 

Who  would  not,  swan-like,  waste  his  sweetest  breath, 

To  taste  such  rapture — die  so  sweet  a  death  ? 


50  ON     A     MINIATURE. 

Flushed,  faint,  and  trembling  at  his  own  success, 

Such  joys  as  these,  the  lonely  painter  bless. 

As  some  fair  face  his  silent  toil  repays, 

And  bursts  in  beauty  on  his  raptured  gaze, 

His  thoughts,  too  sweet  for  mortal  hearts  to  share, 

Float  up  to  heaven,  and  find  an  echo  there, 

While  on  his  heart  descends  immortal  fire, 

And  his  own  soul  becomes  his  funeral  pyre. 


*  I  KNOW  THAT  THY  SPIRIT." 

I  know  that  thy  spirit  looks  radiantly  down, 

From  yon  beautiful  orb  of  the  blessed, 
For  a  sound  and  a  sign  have  been  set  in  my  own, 

That  tell  of  the  place  of  thy  rest ; 
For  I  gaze  on  the  star  that  we  talked  of  so  oft, 

As  our  glances  would  heavenward  rove, 
When  thy  step  was  on  earth,  and  thy  bosom  was  soft 

With  a  sense  of  delight  and  of  love. 

The  dreams,  that  were  laid  on  thy  shadowless  brow, 

Were  pure  as  a  feeling  unborn, 
And  the  tone  of  thy  voice  was  as  pleasant  and  low 

As  a  bird's  in  a  pleasant  spring  mora ; 


52  "i     KNOW    THAI      THY     SPIRIT." 

Such  a  heaven  of  purity  dwelt  in  thy  breast, 

Such  a  world  of  bright  thoughts  in  thy  soul, 
That  naught  could  have  made  thee  more  lovely  or  blessed, 

So  bright  was  the  beautiful  whole. 

\ 
But  now  o'er  thy  breast  in  the  hush  of  the  tomb 

Are  folded  thy  pale  graceful  arms, 
While  the  midnight  of  death,  like  a  garment  of  gloom, 

Hangs  over  that  bosom's  young  cnarms  ! 
And  pale,  pale,  alas  !  is  thy  rosy  lip  now, 

Its  melody  broken  and  gone, 
And  cold  is  the  young  heart,  whose  sweet  dreams  below 

Were  of  summer,  of  summer  alone. 

Yet  the  rise  and  the  fall  of  thine  eyelids  of  snow 

O'er  their  blue  orbs  so  mournfully  meek, 
And  the  delicate  blush  that  would  vanish  and  glow 

Through  the  light  of  thy  transparent  cheek, 
And  thy  tresses  all  put  from  thy  forehead  away — 

These,  these  on  my  memory  rise, 
As  I  gaze  on  yon  bright  orb,  whose  beautiful  ray 

Hath  so  often  been  blessed  by  thine  eyes. 


"I     KNOW     THAT     THY     SPIRIT."  53 

The  blue-girdled  stars  and  the  soft  dreamy  air, 

Divide  thy  fair  spirit  and  mine, 
Yet  I  look  in  my  heart,  and  a  something  is  there, 

That  links  it  in  feeling  to  thine  : 
The  glow  of  the  sunset,  the  voice  of  the  breeze, 

As  it  cradles  itself  on  the  sea, 
Are  dear  to  my  bosom,  for  moments  like  these 

Are  sacred  to  memory  and  thee. 


"WHEN  SHINES  THE  STAR/5 

When  shines  the  star  by  thee  loved  best, 

Upon  those  soft  delicious  eves, 
Lighting  the  ring-dove  to  her  nest 

Where  tremblings  stir  the  darkling  leaves ; 
When  flings  the  wave  its  crest  of  foam 

Above  the  shadowy-mantled  seas, 
A  softness  o'er  my  heart  doth  come, 

Linking  thy  memory  with  these ; 
For  if,  amid  those  orbs,  that  roll, 

Thou  hast  at  times  a  thought  of  me, 
For  every  one,  that  stirs  thy  soul, 

A  thousand  stir  my  own  of  thee. 


"WHEN     SHINES     THE      STAR."  55 

Even  now  thy  dear  remembered  eyes, 

Filled  up  with  floods  of  radiant  light, 
Seem  bending  from  the  twilight  skies, 

Outshining  all  the  stars  of  night ; 
And  thy  young  face,  divinely  fair, 

Like  a  bright  cloud  seems  melting  through, 
While  low  sweet  whispers  fill  the  air, 

Making  my  own  lips  whisper  too  ; 
For  never  does  the  soft  south  wind 

Steal  o'er  the  hushed  and  lonely  sea, 
But  it  awakens  in  my  mind 

A  thousand  memories  of  thee. 


O  !  could  I, — while  these  hours  of  dreams 

Are  gathering  o'er  the  silent  hills, 
While  every  breeze  a  minstrel  seems, 

And  every  leaf  a  harp,  that  thrills — 
Steal  all  unseen  to  some  hushed  place, 

And  kneeling  'neath  those  burning  orbs, 
Forever  gaze  on  thy  sweet  face 

Till  seeing  every  sense  absorbs, 


56  "when   shines   the   star." 

And,  singling  out  each  blessed  even 
The  star  that  earliest  lights  the  sea, 

Forget  another  shines  in  heaven 

While  shines  the  one  beloved  by  thee  ! 

Lost  one  !  companion  of  the  blessed  ! 

Thou  who  in  purer  air  dost  dwell, 
Ere  froze  the  life-drops  in  thy  breast, 

Or  fled  thy  soul  its  mystic  cell, 
We  passed  on  earth  such  hours  of  bliss 

As  none  but  kindred  hearts  can  know, 
And,  happy  in  a  world  like  this, 

But  dreamed  of  that  to  which  we  go, 
Till  thou  wert  called  in  thy  young  years 

To  wander  o'er  that  shoreless  sea, 
Where,  like  a  mist,  Time  disappears, 

Melting  into  Eternity. 

I'm  thinking  of  some  sunny  hours, 
That  shone  out  goldeniy  in  June, 

When  birds  were  singing  'mong  the  flowers 
With  wild  sweet  voices  all  in  tune; 


"when   shines   the   star."  57 

When  o'er  thy  locks  of  paly  gold 

Flowed  thy  transparent  veil  away, 
Till  'neath  each  snow-white  trembling  fold 

The  Eden  of  thy  bosom  lay ; 
And  sheltered  'neath  its  dark-fringed  lid, 

Till  raised  from  thence  in  girlish  glee, 
How  modestly  thy  glance  lay  hid 

From  the  fond  glances  bent  on  thee. 

There  are  some  hours,  that  pass  so  soon, 

Our  spell-touched  hearts  scarce  know  they  end 
And  so  it  was  with  that  sweet  June, 

Ere  thou  wert  lost,  my  gentle  friend  ! 
O  !  how  I'll  watch  each  flower  that  closes 

Through  autumn's  soft  and  breezy  reign, 
Till  summer-blooms  restore  the  roses, 

And  merry  June  shall  come  again  ! 
But,  ah  !  while  float  its  sunny  hours 

O'er  fragrant  shore  and  trembling  sea, 
Missing  thy  face  among  the  flowers, 

How  my  full  heart  will  mourn  for  thee  I 


MY  SISTERS. 

Like  flowers  that  softly  bloom  together 

Upon  one  fair  and  fragile  stem, 
Mingling  their  sweets  in  sunny  weather 

Ere  strange  rude  hands  have  parted  them, 
So  were  we  linked  unto  each  other, 

Sweet  Sisters,  in  our  childish  hours, 
For  then  one  fond  and  gentle  mother 

To  us  was  like  the  stem  to  flowers ; 
She  was  the  golden  thread,  that  bound  us 

In  one  bright  chain  together  here, 
Till  Death  unloosed  the  cord  around  us, 

And  we  were  severed  far  and  near. 


MY     SISTERS.  59 

The  floweret's  stem,  when  broke  or  shattered, 

Must  cast  its  blossoms  to  the  wind, 
Yet,  round  the  buds,  though  widely  scattered, 

The  same  soft  perfume  still  we  find ; 
And  thus,  although  the  tie  is  broken, 

That  linked  us  round  our  mother's  knee, 
The  memory  of  words  we've  spoken, 

When  we  were  children  light  and  free, 
Will,  like  the  perfume  of  each  blossom, 

Live  in  our  hearts  where'er  we  roam, 
As  when  we  slept  on  one  fond  bosom, 

And  dwelt  within  one  happy  home. 


I  know  that  changes  have  come  o'er  us; 

Sweet  Sisters  !  we  are  not  the  same, 
For  different  paths  now  lie  before  us, 

And  all  three  have  a  different  name  ; 
And  yet,  if  sorrow's  dimming  fingers 

Have  shadowed  o'er  each  youthful  brow, 
So  much  of  light  around  them  lingers 

I  cannot  trace  those  shadows  now. 


60  MY     SISTERS. 

Ye  both  have  those,  who  love  ye  only, 

Whose  dearest  hopes  are  round  you  thrown, 

While,  like  a  stream  that  wanders  lonely, 
Am  I,  the  youngest,  wildest  one. 


My  heart  is  like  the  wind,  that  beareth 

Sweet  scents  upon  its  unseen  wing — 
The  wind  !  that  for  no  creature  careth, 

Yet  stealeth  sweets  from  every  thing ; 
It  hath  rich  thoughts  forever  leaping 

Up,  like  the  waves  of  flashing  seas, 
That  with  their  music  still  are  keeping 

Soft  time  with  every  fitful  breeze ; 
Each  leaf  that  in  the  bright  air  quivers, 

The  sounds  from  hidden  solitudes, 
And  the  deep  flow  of  far-off  rivers, 

And  the  loud  rush  of  many  floods ; 
All  these,  and  more,  stir  in  my  bosom 

Feelings  that  make  my  spirit  glad, 
Like  dew-drops  shaken  in  a  blossom ; 

And,  yet  there  is  a  something  sad 


MY    SISTERS.  61 

Mixed  with  those  thoughts,  like  clouds,  that  hover 

Above  us  in  the  quiet  air, 
Veiling  the  moon's  pale  beauty  over, 

Like  a  dark  spirit  brooding  there. 


But,  Sisters  !  those  wild  thoughts  were  never 

Yours  !  ye  would  not  love,  like  me, 
To  gaze  upon  the  stars  forever, 

To  hear  the  wind's  wild  melody. 
Ye'd  rather  look  on  smiling  faces, 

And  linger  round  a  cheerful  hearth, 
Than  mark  the  stars'  bright  hiding-places 

As  they  peep  out  upon  the  earth. 
But,  Sisters  !  as  the  stars  of  even 

Shrink  from  day's  golden  flashing  eye, 
And,  melting  in  the  depths  of  heaven, 

Veil  their  soft  beams  within  the  sky ; 
So  shall  we  pass,  the  joyous-hearted, 

The  fond,  the  young,  like  stars  that  wane, 
Till  every  link  of  earth  be  parted, 

To  form  in  heaven  one  mystic  chain. 


THE  FIRST  DEATH  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD, 

O  !  many  a  mournful  year  hath  flown 

Since  first  amid  our  family-band 
Death  came  and  stole  our  loveliest  one, 

And  bore  her  to  the  spirit-land  ; 
Yet  shrined  with  many  a  sweet  sad  thought, 

That  loved  one's  memory  lingers  still, 
For  O !  she  left  a  void,  that  naught 

But  mournful  thoughts  could  fill. 

Years  have  passed  by,  I  said,  and  yet 

It  only  seems  the  other  day, 
Since  round  her  dying  bed  we  met 

With  breaking  hearts  to  weep  and  pray. 


FIRST    DEATH    OF    THE    HOUSEHOLD.  63 

Her  gentle  soul  we  strove  to  think 
Would  linger  yet  'mid  earthly  flowers, 

Even  when  'twas  trembling  oh  the  brink 
Of  lovelier  worlds  than  ours. 

Yes  !  there  e'en  when  all  hope  had  flown, 

We  wept  away  each  lingering  hour, 
Until  the  shades  of  death  came  down 

And  closed  at  last  the  shutting  flower ; 
And  yet  it  seemed  like  sin- to  grieve 

For  one  so  patient  and  resigned ; 
For,  if  she  mourned,  'twas  but  to  leave 

Such  breaking  hearts  behind. 

She  died — yet  death  could  scarcely  chill 

Her  smiling  beauties,  though  she  lay 
With  cold  extended  limbs,  for  still 

Her  face  looked  fairer  than  the  day. 
Those  eyes,  once  eloquent  with  bliss, 

Were  closed  as  soft  as  shutting  flowers. 
O !  few  could  bear  a  sight  like  this, 

Yet  such  a  sight  was  ours. 


64      FIRST  DEATH  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

How  slowly  wore  that  long,  long  day ! 

Like  spirits  in  some  haunted  place 
We'd  sit  and  sigh,  then  steal  away 

To  look  once  more  on  that  pale  face ; 
We  could  not  think  her  soul  had  passed 

The  awful  bounds  of  mortal  strife, 
That  the  warm  heart  was  cold  at  last, 

That  loved  us  more  than  life. 

And  when  the  funeral  rite  was  said, 

They  bore  her  from  our  happy  home, 
And  left  her  with  the  silent  dead, 

A  pale-faced  tenant  of  the  tomb  ; 
They  reared  no  marble  'mid  the  flowers 

Above  her  grave  to  mark  the  spot, 
Yet  many  a  heart  as  fond  as  ours 

Still  holds  her  unforgot. 

Months  passed,  yet  still  our  sorrow  gushed, 
The  free  glad  laugh  no  more  was  heard, 

And  many  a  little  voice  was  hushed, 
That  used  to  warble  like  a  bird. 


FIRST    DEATH    OF    THE    HOUSEHOLD.  65 

And  though  at  times  we  strove  to  smile 

Serenely  for  each  other's  sake, 
We  wept  in  secret  all  the  while 

As  if  our  hearts  would  break. 

Yet  why  should  death  be  linked  with  fear? 

A  single  breath,  a  low-drawn  sigh, 
Can  break  the  ties  that  bind  us  here, 

And  waft  the  spirit  to  the  sky. 
Such  was  her  end,  a  calm  release, 

No  clingings  to  this  mortal  clod ; 
She  closed  her  eyes,  and  stood  in  peace 

Before  a  smiling  God. 

6* 


THE  MAIDEN'S  FIRST  LOYE. 

Her  dove-like  spirit  through  her  mournful  eves 
Looks  softly  upward  to  its  native  heaven ; 
For  a  love-spell  upon  her  being  lies, 
Whose  many  mystic  links  may  not  be  riven. 
Love  breathed  into  her  girlish  heart,  perchance, 
On  some  sweet  eve,  beside  a  pleasant  stream, 
Poured  from  the  lightning  of  a  radiant  glance, 
Till  love's  wild  passion  kindled  passion's  dream. 

For  love  at  first  is  but  a  dreamy  thing, 

That  slyly  nestles  in  the  human  heart, 

A  morning  lark,  that  never  plumes  its  wing 

Till  hopes  and  fears,  like  lights  and  shadows,  part 


THE    MAIDEN'S    FIRST    LOVE.  67 

And  thus  unconscious  as  she  looks  above 
She  breathes  his  blessed  name  in  murmurs  low, 
Yet  never  for  a  moment  thinks  of  love, 
And  almost  wonders  why  she  murmurs  so. 

Ah  !  mournful  one  !  the  thoughts  thou  wilt  not  speak, 
Their  trembling  music  at  thy  heart-strings  play, 
Till  the  bright  blood,  that  mantles  to  thy  cheek, 
In  faint  and  fainter  blushes  melts  away. 
Thine  is  the  mournful  joy,  that  in  the  dawn 
Of  early  love  upon  the  spirit  broods, 
.Till  the  young  heart,  grown  timid  as  a  fawn, 
Seeks  the  still  starlight  and  the  shadowy  woods. 

Yes,  by  the  chastened  light  of  those  soft  eyes, 
That  never  swam  in  sorrowing  tears  before, 
By  the  low  breathing  of  those  mournful  sighs, 
That,  like  a  mist-wreath,  cloud  thy  spirit  o'er, 
And  by  the  color  that  doth  come  and  go, 
Making  more  lovely  thy  bewildering  charms — 
Maiden  !   'tis  love  that  fills  thy  breast  of  snow, 
Heaving  with  tender  fears  and  soft  alarms. 


68  the  maiden's  first  love. 

My  bosom  trembles  at  the  love  intense, 
Breathed  eloquently  from  thine  earnest  eyes, 
The  love  that  is  to  thee  a  new-born  sense, 
Waking  sweet  thoughts  and  gentle  sympathies; 
O  !  for  the  sake  of  all  thou  wert,  and  art, 
May  Love's  soft  Eden-winds,  that  seem  to  kiss 
The  very  foldings  of  thy  love-toned  heart, 
Be  but  the  prelude  to  some  deeper  bliss. 


THE  STARS. 

Ye  snow-white  clouds,  whose  fleecy  wings  enfold 
The  stars,  that  light  yon  boundless  breadth  of  blue, 

Roll  back  your  edges,  tinged  with  deepest  gold, 
And  softly  let  the  peaceful  wanderers  through, 

Till,  one  by  one,  they  burst  upon  my  eyes, 

O'ertaking  my  young  heart  with  sudden  sweet  surprise. 


Celestial  lights,  lit  by  the  power  divine, 

That  bids  you  roll  through  yonder  azure  plain, 

Ye  startle  thoughts  within  this  heart  of  mine, 
That  I  must  breathe,  or  it  will  break  in  twain  ! 

Companions  of  the  twilight  and  the  dew, 

Smile  on  the  Minstrel-girl,  who  strings  hei  harp  anew. 


70  THE    STARS. 

I  am  not  one  whose  eagle-eye  can  reach 

The  mystic  things,  within  your  golden  spheres, 

Yet  better  thoughts  than  science  e'er  can  teach 
Are  softly  brimming  my  young  eyes  with  tears ; 

For  e'en  the  simplest  heart  at  times  may  scan 

What  years  can  scarce  unfold,  or  wisdom  teach  to  man. 


How  oft,  when  but  a  child,  in  wildest  glee, 
I've  climbed  the  summit  of  some  breezy  hill, 

Whose  mossy  sides  went  sloping  to  the  sea 
Where  slept  another  heaven  serenely  still, 

While,  from  the  mighty  stronghold  of  the  seas, 

The  dead  sent  up  their  dirge  upon  the  twilight  breeze. 


And  there  beneath  a  fringe  of  dewy  leaves, 

That  drooped  away  from  many  a  bended  bough, 

I  used  to  lie  on  summer's  golden  eves, 
And  gaze  above  as  I  am  gazing  now, 

Thinking  each  lustrous  star  a  heavenly  shrine 

For  an  immortal  soul,  and  wondered  which  was  mine. 


THE    STARS.  71 

But  now  the  moon,  beside  yon  lonely  hill, 
Lifts  high  her  trembling  cup  of  paly  gold, 

And  all  the  planets,  following  slow  and  still, 
Along  the  deep  their  solemn  marches  hold, 

While  here  and  there  some  meteor's  startling  ray 

Shoots  streaks  of  arrowy  fire  far  down  the  milky- way 


The  milky- way  !   ah  !   fair,  illumined  path, 
That  leadest  upward  to  the  gate  of  heaven, 

My  spirit,  soaring  from  this  world  of  scath, 
Is  lost  with  thee  amid  the  clouds  of  even, 

And  there,  upborne  on  Fancy's  glittering  wing, 

Floats  by  the  golden  gate,  and  hears  the  angels  sing. 


O  !  who  can  lift  above  a  careless  look, 

While  such  bright  scenes  as  these  his  thoughts  engage. 
And  doubt,  while  reading  from  so  fair  a  book, 

That  God's  own  finger  traced  the  glowing  page, 
Or  deem  the  radiance  of  yon  blue  expanse, 
With  all  its  starry  hosts,  the  careless  work  of  Chance  ? 


72  THE    STARS. 

O  blessed  stars  !  whene'er  ye  softly  fling 
A  silvery  trembling  down  by  lake  and  hill, 

'Tis  then  that  sweet  Religion's  holy  wing 
Broods  o'er  the  spirit,  and  doth  softly  fill 

Its  silent  depths  with  that  pure  heavenly  bliss, 

That  we  so  seldom  feel,  save  at  an  hour  like  this. 


For  ne'er  since  love's  sweet  raptures  o'er  me  stole, 
As  first  its  young  existence  dawned  in  sighs, 

Have  I  e'er  felt  such  fulness  in  my  soul, 

Such  depth  of  softness  at  my  heart  and  eyes, 

As  I  now  feel  upon  this  dewy  sod, 

Pondering  with  holy  awe  the  wondrous  works  of  God. 


Ye  bring  the  time  when  happy  lovers  meet 
In  some  lone  spot,  when  not  a  sound  is  heard 

Save  their  own  sighs,  or  the  unequal  beat 

Of  their  young  hearts  to  tender  wishes  stirred, 

As  hand  seeks  hand,  and  meeting  glances  tell 

The  unuttered  tale  of  love,  too  sweetly  and  too  well. 


THE    STARS.  73 

But  all  in  vain  to  thought's  tumultuous  flow 

I  strive  to  give  the  strength  of  glowing  words ; 

The  waves  of  feeling,  tossing  to  and  fro 
In  broken  music  o'er  my  harp's  loose  chords, 

Give  but  their  fainting  echoes  from  my  soul, 

As  through  its  silent  depths  their  wild  swift  currents  roll. 


Yet,  thou,  who  art  mine  inspiration,  thou, 

For  whose  sweet  praises  still  I  strive  to  sing, 

I  will  not  murmur  once,  when,  bending  low, 
At  thy  dear  feet  my  broken  harp  I  fling, 

Wei;  pleased  if  others  think  this  song  I  send, 

Though  all  unworthy  praise,  too  simple  to  offend. 


STANZAS. 

Pale  star,  that,  with  thy  soft  sad  light, 

Came  out  upon  my  bridal  eve, 
I  have  a  song  to  sing  to-night 

Before  thou  tak'st  thy  mournful  leave. 
Since  then,  so  softly  time  hath  stirred, 

That  months  have  almost  seemed  like  hours, 
And  I  am  like  some  little  bird, 

That's  slept  too  long  among  the  flowers, 
And,  waking,  sits  with  waveless  wing, 

Soft-singing,  'mid  the  shades  of  even ; 
But  O  !   with  sadder  heart  I  sing — 

I  sing  of  one  who  dwells  in  heaven. 


STANZAS.  75 

The  winds  are  soft,  the  clouds  are  few, 

And  tenderest  thought  my  heart  beguiles, 
As,  floating  up  through  mist  and  dew, 

The  pale  young  moon  comes  out  and  smiles ; 
And  to  the  green  resounding  shore, 

In  silvery  troops  the  ripples  crowd, 
Till  all  the  ocean,  dimpled  o'er, 

Lifts  up  its  voice  and  laughs  aloud : 
And  star  on  star,  all  soft  and  calm, 

Floats  up  yon  arch  serenely  blue, 
And  lost  to  earth,  and  steeped  in  balm, 

My  spirit  floats  in  ether  too. 


Loved  one  !   though  lost  to  human  sight, 

I  feel  thy  spirit  lingering  near, 
As  softly  as  I  feel  the  light 

That  trembles  through  the  atmosphere  ; 
As  in  some  temple's  holy  shades, 

Though  mute  the  hymn,  and  hushed  the  prayer, 
A  solemn  awe  the  soul  pervades, 

Which  tells  that  worship  has  been  there; 


76  STANZAS. 

A  breath  of  incense  left  alone, 

Where  many  a  censer  swung  around, 

Will  thrill  the  wanderer  like  a  tone, 
Who  treads  on  consecrated  ground. 

I  know  thy  soul,  from  worlds  of  bliss, 

That  stoops  awhile  to  dwell  with  me, 
Hath  caught  the  prayer  I  breathed  in  this, 

That  I  at  last  might  dwell  with  thee. 
I  hear  a  murmur  from  the  seas 

That  thrills  me  like  thy  spirit's  sighs ; 
I  hear  a  voice  on  every  breeze ; 

That  makes  to  mine  its  low  replies — 
A  voice,  all  low  and  sweet,  like  thine, 

It  gives  an  answer  to  my  prayer, 
And  brings  my  soul  from  heaven  a  sign 

That  it  shall  know  and  meet  thee  there. 

I'll  know  thee  there  by  that  sweet  face, 
Round  which  a  tender  halo  plays, 

Still  touched  with  that  expressive  grace 
That  made  thee  lovely  all  thy  days ; 


STANZAS.  77 

By  that  sweet  smile,  that  o'er  it  shed 

A  beauty  like  the  light  of  even, 
Whose  soft  expression  never  fled, 

Even  when  its  soul  had  flown  to  heaven ; 
I'll  know  thee  by  the  starry  crown, 

That  glitters  in  thy  golden  hair: 
O  !  by  these  blessed  signs  alone 

I'll  know  thee  there — I'll  know  thee  there. 


For  thy  soft  eye,  within  whose  sphere, 

The  sweets  of  youth  and  beauty  met. 
That  swam  in  love  and  softness  here, 

Must  swim  in  love  and  softness  yet ; 
For  O  !  its  dark  and  liquid  beams, 

Though  saddened  by  a  thousand  sighs, 
Were  holier  than  the  light  that  streams 

Down  from  the  gates  of  paradise — 
Were  bright  and  radiant  like  the  morn, 

Yet  soft  and  dewy  as  the  eve — 
Too  sad  for  eyes  where  smiles  are  born — 

Too  young  for  eyes  that  learn  to  grieve. 

7* 


78  STANZAS. 

I  wonder  if  this  cool,  sweet  breeze 

Hath  touched  thy  lips  and  fanned  thy  brow 
For  all  my  spirit  hears  and  sees 

Recalls  thee  to  my  memory  now : 
For  every  hour  we  breathe  apart 

Will  but  increase,  if  that  can  be, 
The  love  that  fills  this  mournful  heart, 

Already  filled  so  full  of  thee ; 
Yet  many  a  tear  these  eyes  must  weep, 

And  many  a  sin  must  be  forgiven, 
Ere  these  pale  lids  shall  sink  to  sleep — 

Ere  thou  and  I  shall  meet  in  heaven. 


TIME. 

All  hail,  thou  viewless  one,  whose  lonely  wings 
Sweep  o'er  the  earth,  unwearied  and  sublime  ! 

Mysterious  agent  of  the  King  of  kings, 

Whom  conquerors  obey,  and  man  calls  Time  ! 

Compared  with  thee,  even  centuries  in  their  might 
Seem  but  like  atoms  in  the  sun's  broad  ray ; 

Thou  sweep'st  them  on  in  thy  majestic  flight, 

Scattering  them  from  thy  plumes  like  drops  of  spray 
Cast  from  the  ocean  in  its  scornful  play. 

Shrined  as  thou  art  in  my  sublimest  thought, 
How  shall  my  spirit  hail  thee?   O'er  the  earth 

Thou,  with  ten  thousand  worlds  that  sprang  from  naught, 
Began'st  thy  wanderings  at  creation's  birth ! 

Musing  on  thee,  the  expanding  spirit,  filled 


80  TIME. 

With  thoughts  too  vast  for  human  eloquence, 
Shrinks  trembling,  like  a  woman's  heart  when  thrilled 
With  love's  delicious  throes — till  thought  intense 
Is  lost  amid  its  own  magnificence. 

Thou  floatest  imperceptible  to  sight, 

God-like,  diffusing  life  and  death  around ; 

Swift  stars  shoot  round  thee  in  thy  rapid  flight, 
Dropping  like  gems  from  midnight's  blue  profound ; 

Swept  on  with  thee,  through  vast  immensity, 
Each  blazing  sphere  in  its  swift  course  revolves, 

The  sunny  streams  go  singing  to  the  sea, 
And  the  blue  wave  upon  the  beach  dissolves 
Like  woman's  hopes,  and  manhood's  high  resolves. 

Even  every  heart-beat  in  the  bosom's  cell 
Steals  o'er  the  spirit  like  a  funeral  toll ; 

Each  solemn  stroke  is  like  a  passing-bell, 
Heard  'mid  the  hushes  of  the  startled  soul. 

The  waves  of  feeling,  tossing  to  and  fro 
Like  ocean-billows  restless  and  sublime, 

The  crimson  life-drops  as  they  ebb  and  flow, 


TIME. 

And  the  quick  pulse  with  its  unequal  chime, 

All  beat  with  muffled  strokes  the  march  of  Time. 

Each  year,  that  seems  so  long  to  us,  to  thee 
Is  but  one  sweep  of  thy  majestic  plume, 

Bearing  pale  millions  to  the  eternal  sea, 

Through  the  dim  pathway  of  the  midnight  tomb  ; 

Thou  touch'st  the  young  and  beautiful,  and  lo  ! 
Gone  are  the  charms  thou  never  can'st  restore, 

The  fair  and  glossy  tress  turns  white  as  snow, 
And  the  young  voice,  that  warbles  o'er  and  o'er, 
Drops  its  low  bird-like  note,  and  sings  no  more. 

Yet,  in  the  rosy  dawn  of  childhood's  day, 
How  swift  the  joyous  moments  seem  to  flee  ! 

They  waft  themselves  like  happy  thoughts  away, 
Or  melt  like  snow-flakes  dropping  on  the  sea ; 

'Tis  pastime  then  to  laugh  away  the  hours, 
That  lightly  mingle  in  thy  circling  race, 

Like  dancing-girls,  all  linked  with  wreaths  of  flowers, 
Or  like  swift  ripples,  that  each  other  chase, 
Or  deepening  dimples  o'er  a  laughing  face. 


81 


THE   FREED  BIRD. 

Thy  cage  is  opened,  bird !  too  well  I  love  thee 
To  bar  the  sunny  things  of  earth  from  thee  ; 

A  whole  broad  heaven  of  blue  lies  calm  above  thee, 
The  green-wood  waves  beneath,  and  thou  art  free  ; 

These  slender  wires  shall  prison  thee  no  more — 

Up,  bird  !  and  'mid  the  clouds  thy  thrilling  music  pour. 


Away  !  away  !  the  laughing  waters,  playing, 
Break  on  the  fragrant  shore  in  ripples  blue, 

And  the  green  leaves  unto  the  breeze  are  laying 
Their  shining  edges,  fringed  with  drops  of  dew ; 

And,  here  and  there,  a  wild  flower  lifts  its  head 

Refreshed  with  sudden  life  from  many  a  sunbeam  shed. 


.•>    I   »    > 


THE     FREED     BIRD.  83 

How  sweet  thy  voice  will  sound  !  for  o'er  yon  river 
The  wing  of  silence,  like  a  dream,  is  laid, 

And  naught  is  heard  save  where  the  wood-boughs  quiver, 
Making  rich  spots  of  trembling  light  and  shade. 

And  a  new  rapture  thy  wild  spirit  fills, 

For  joy  is  on  the  breeze,  and  morn  upon  the  hills. 


Now,  like  the  aspen,  plays  each  quivering  feather 
Of  thy  swift  pinion,  bearing  thee  along, 

Up,  where  the  morning  stars  once  sang  together, 
To  pour  the  fulness  of  thine  own  rich  song ; 

And  now  thou'rt  mirrored  to  my  dazzled  view, 

A  little  dusky  speck  amid  a  world  of  blue. 


Yet  I  will  shade  mine  eye  and  still  pursue  thee, 

As  thou  dost  melt  in  soft  ethereal  air, 
Till  angel-ones,  sweet  bird,  will  bend  to  view  thee, 

And  cease  their  hymns  awhile  thine  own  to  share ; 
And  there  thou  art,  with  light  clouds  round  thee  furled, 
J  ust  poised  beneath  yon  vault,  that  arches  o'er  the  world. 

2* 


84  THE     FREED     BIRD. 

A  free  wild  spirit  unto  thee  is  given, 

Bright  minstrel  of  the  blue  celestial  dome ! 

For  thou  wilt  wander  to  yon  upper  heaven, 

And  bathe  thy  plumage  in  the  sunbeam's  home ; 

And,  soaring  upward  from  thy  dizzy  height 

On  free  and  fearless  wing,  be  lost  to  human  sight. 


Lute  of  the  summer  clouds  !  whilst  thou  art  singing 
Unto  thy  Maker  thy  soft  matin  hymn, 

My  own  mild  spirit,  from  its  temple  springing, 
Would  freely  join  thee  in  the  distance  dim ; 

But  I  can  only  gaze  on  thee  and  sigh 

With  heart  upon  my  lip,  bright  minstrel  of  the  sky  ! 


And  yet,  sweet  bird  !  bright  thoughts  to  me  are  given 
As  many  as  the  clustering  leaves  of  June ; 

And  my  young  heart  is  like  a  harp  of  heaven, 
Forever  strung  unto  some  pleasant  tune  ; 

And  my  soul  burns  with  wild  poetic  fire, 

Though  simple  are  my  strains,  and  simpler  still  my  lyre. 


THE     FREED     BIRD.  3f) 

And  now,  farewell !  the  wild  wind  of  the  mountain 
And  the  blue  streams  alone  my  strains  have  heard ; 

And  it  is  well,  for  from  my  heart's  deep  fountain 
They  flow,  uncultured,  as  thine  own,  sweet  bird  ! 

For  my  free  thoughts  have  ever  spurned  control, 

Since  this  heart  held  a  wish,  and  this  frail  form  a  soul  ! 


THE  CAPTIVE  SAILOR  BOY. 

The  light  of  many  stars 
Qui  ers  in  tremulous  softness  on  the  air, 
And  the  night-breeze  is  singing  here  and  there, 

Yet  from  my  prison-bars 
A  narrow  strip  of  sky  is  all  I  see — 
0  !  that  some  kindly  hand  would  set  me  free  ! 


The  bright  new  moon  is  hung 
Up  'mid  the  softness  of  the  fleecy  clouds, 
And  the  far  ocean  'neath  its  foamy  shrouds 

Thrills  like  a  harp  fresh  strung, 
And  the  wild  sea-birds,  on  quick  pinions  flee- 
O !  for  one  glance  upon  the  deep  blue  sea ! 


THE    CAPTIVE     SAILOR    BOY  87 

Why  should  the  young  and  brave 
Be  fetteied  thus  upon  the  fresh  green  earth? 
Give  me  one  hour  beside  my  mother's  hearth, 

And  then  for  ocean's  wave  ! 
Free  as  the  laughing  billows  I  would  toss — 
O  !  for  the  swift  wing  of  the  albatros  ! 


When  slumber  waves  her  wand 
Over  my  brow,  I  wander  in  my  dreams 
Close  by  the  ripples  of  our  soft  blue  streams 

Far  in  my  native  land, 
And  lovely  visions  o'er  my  eyelids  play — 
O !  that  I  could  but  dream  my  life  away  ! 


I  see  my  mother  then ; 
A  pleasant  smile  sleeps  on  her  features  fair, 
And  the  low  cadence  of  her  whispered  prayer 

Steals  on  my  ear  again, 
As  when  I  knelt  beside  her  blessed  knee — 
Mother,  sweet  Mother,  dost  thou  pray  for  me  ? 


88  THE     CAPTIVE     SAILOR    BOY. 

Upon  the  summer  rose 
Nature's  faint  pencillings  are  softly  seen, 
Laid  on  with  cunning  hand,  and  bright  and  green, 

Where  the  wood-branches  close 
The  honey-suckle  wreathes  our  cottage  eaves — 
Alas  !  I  may  not  sit  beneath  its  leaves  ! 


Before  I  sought  the  sea, 
I  used  to  wander  with  my  sister  sweet, 
And  many  a  winding  path  our  little  feet 

Made  round  the  old  oak  tree, 
Where  in  the  sunshine  we  were  wont  to  play- 
And  they  are  there — but  I  am  far  away ! 


O  !  could  I  only  ride 
Upon  the  ocean  where  the  wild  winds  meet, 
And  where  the  sea-shell  singeth  passing  sweet 

Under  the  trembling  tide, 
The  demon  of  the  storms  I  would  not  fear — 
But  O  !  I  am  a  fettered  captive  here ! 


THE     CAPTIVE     SAILOR     BOY.  89 

O  !  could  I  see  my  home 
If  but  to  kiss  my  sister's  cheek  once  more, 
And  hear  thee,  Mother,  bless  me  o'er  and  o'er  ! 

For  then  not  e'en  my  doom 
Could  dim  thy  truant's  laughter-loving  eye — 
Alas  !  without  thy  blessing  I  must  die  ! 


Die  in  this  dreary  cell, 
With  no  fond  ear  to  catch  my  parting  breath  ; 
In  bondage  I  must  wrestle  here  with  death, 

Without  one  sweet  farewell 
From  lips  that  oft  have  smiled  on  me  in  joy — 
Alas  !  sweet  Mother,  for  thy  captive  boy ! 

8* 


THE  GOLDEN  RINGLET. 

Here  is  a  little  golden  tress 

Of  soft  unbraided  hair, 
The  all  that's  left  of  loveliness, 

That  once  was  thought  so  fair ; 
And  yet  though  time  hath  dimmed  its  sheen, 

Though  all  beside  hath  fled, 
I  hold  it  here,  a  link  between 

My  spirit  and  the  dead. 

Yes !  from  this  shining  ringlet  still 

A  mournful  memory  springs, 
That  melts  my  heart  and  sends  a  thrill 

Through  all  its  trembling  strings. 


THE     GOLDEN     RINGLET.  91 

I  think  of  her,  the  loved,  the  wept, 

Upon  whose  forehead  fair, 
For  eighteen  years,  like  sunshine,  slept 

This  golden  curl  of  hair. 

O  sunny  tress  !  the  joyous  brow, 

Where  thou  didst  lightly  wave, 
With  all  thy  sister-tresses  now 

Lies  cold  within  the  grave; 
That  cheek  is  of  its  bloom  bereft, 

That  eye  no  more  is  gay ; 
Of  all  her  beauties  thou  art  left, 

A  solitary  ray. 

Four  years  have  passed,  this  very  June, 

Since  last  we  fondly  met — 
Four  years !  and  yet  it  seems  too  soon 

To  let  the  heart  forget — 
Too  soon  to  let  that  lovely  face 

From  our  sad  thoughts  depart, 
And  to  another  give  the  place 

She  held  within  the  heart. 


92  THE    GOLDEN    RINGLET. 

Her  memory  still  within  my  mind 

Retains  its  sweetest  power ; 
It  is  the  perfume  left  behind 

To  whisper  of  the  flower  ; 
Each  blossom,  that  in  moments  gone 

Bound  up  this  sunny  curl, 
Recalls  the  form,  the  look,  the  tone 

Of  that  enchanting  girl. 

Her  step  was  like  an  April  rain 

O'er  beds  of  violets  flung, 
Her  voice  the  prelude  to  a  strain 

Before  the  song  is  sung ; 
Her  life — 'twas  like  a  half-blown  flowei 

Closed  ere  the  shades  of  even, 
Her  death,  the  dawn,  the  blushing  hour, 

That  opes  the  gate  of  heaven. 

A  single  tress  !  how  slight  a  thing 

To  sway  such  magic  art, 
And  bid  each  soft  remembrance  spring 

Like  blossoms  in  the  heart ! 


THE     GOLDEN     RINGLET.  93 

It  leads  me  back  to  days  of  old, 

To  her  I  loved  so  long, 
Whose  locks  outshone  pellucid  gold, 

Whose  lips  o'erflowed  with  song. 

Since  then  I've  heard  a  thousand  lays 

From  lips  as  sweet  as  hers, 
Yet  when  I  strove  to  give  them  praise, 

I  only  gave  them  tears  ; 
I  could  not  bear,  amid  the  throng 

Where  jest  and  laughter  rung, 
To  hear  another  sing  the  song 

That  trembled  on  her  tongue. 

A  single  shining  tress  of  hair 

To  bid  such  memories  start ! 
But  tears  are  on  its  lustre — there 

I  lay  it  on  my  heart : 
O  !  when  in  Death's  cold  arms  I  sink, 

Who  then,  with  gentle  care, 
Will  keep  for  me  a  dark-brown  link — 

A  ringlet  of  my  hair  ? 


THE  COTTAGE  BAND. 

I  know  a  neat  white  cot,  that  peeps  out  brightly 
From  its  repose  amid  green  wavy  trees, 

That  murmur  to  the  breeze, 
Round  which  young  feet  are  heard  to  fall  as  lightly 
As  summer  rain-drops  on  the  sighing  rose, 

Lulling  it  to  repose. 


There,  when  the  joyous  lark  is  upward  springing, 
With  his  sweet  song  to  greet  the  early  morn, 

Unto  the  ear  is  borne 
The  silvery  laugh  of  childhood,  wildly  ringing 
Upon  the  stillness  of  the  soft  blue  air, 

For  happy  hearts  are  there  : 


THE     COTTAGE     BAND.  95 

Hearts  that  are  filled  from  love's  eternal  fountain 
Till  each  is  like  a  deep  o'erflowing  well, 

Or  a  wild  floweret's  bell, 
Hid  'neath  the  brow  of  some  o'erhanging  mountain, 
Giving  its  perfume  to  each  wind  it  meets, 

Yet  losing  not  its  sweets. 


And  there  at  noontide,  mid  the  trembling  glances 
Of  the  sweet  starry  jasmine  gleaming  out, 

Is  heard  a  young  boy's  shout, 
Clear  as  the  singing  of  a  stream,  that  dances 
Unto  the  breeze  in  all  its  boundless  glee — 

As  clear,  but  O  !  more  free. 


And  near  his  side  a  fairy  creature  lingers, 
His  little  sister  with  her  moss-rose  cheek, 

And  eye  so  softly  meek, 
Parting  the  clustering  vines  with  dimpled  fingers, 
And  seizing  from  their  long  and  wiry  stems, 

Their  pale  and  quivering  gems. 


96  THE     COTTAGE     BAND. 

And  there  at  eve,  beneath  the  starlight  gleamings, 
Sits  their  young  mother  in  soft  pensive  grace, 

With  sweetly  smiling  face, 
Hushing  her  babe  unto  its  heavenly  dreamings, 
And,  with  bent  listening  ear  and  graceful  head, 

Waiting  her  husband's  tread. 


And,  when  his  step  is  heard  among  the  flowers, 
Sweet  lips  are  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  ready  feet 

Fly  forth  his  own  to  meet ; 
And  the  calm  stillness  of  the  twilight  hours 
Is  broken  by  soft  whispered  words  of  love, 

Stirring  the  air  above. 


And  this  is  all !  yet  oft  my  fancy  painteth 
That  quiet  lovely  spot  unto  my  view, 

Where  the  warm  sun  looks  through 
The  leafy  boughs,  and  where  the  white  rose  fainteth 
Upon  the  breeze,  that  oft  its  leaves  hath  fanned — 

Blessed  be  that  cottage-band  S 


THE  LITTLE  STEP-SON. 

I  have  a  little  step-son,  the  loveliest  thing  alive  ; 

A  noble  sturdy  boy  is  he,  and  yet  he's  only  five  ; 

His  smooth  cheek  hath  a  blooming  glow,  his  eyes  are  black  as  jet, 

And  his  lips  are  like  two  rose-buds,  all  tremulous  and  wet ; 

His  days  pass  off  in  sunshine,  in  laughter,  and  in  song, 

As  careless  as  a  summer  rill,  that  sings  itself  along  ; 

For  like  a  pretty  fairy  tale,  that's  all  too  quickly  told, 

Is  the  young  life  of  a  little  one,  that's  only  five  years  old. 

He's  dreaming  on  his  happy  couch  before  the  day  grows  dark, 
He's  up  with  morning's  rosy  ray  a-singing  with  the  lark  ; 
Where'er  the  flowers  are  freshest,  where'er  the  grass  is  green, 
With  light  locks  waving  on  the  wind  his  fairy  form  is  seen, 

9 


98  THE    LITTLE    STEP-SON. 

Amid  the  whistling  March  winds,  amid  the  April  showers  ; 
He  warbles  with  the  singing  birds  and  blossoms  with  the  flowers  ; 
He  cares  not  for  the  summer  heat,  he  cares  not  for  the  cold — 
My  sturdy  little  step-son,  that's  only  five  years  old. 

How  touching  'tis  to  see  him  clasp  his  dimpled  hands  in  prayer, 
And  raise  his  little  rosy  face  with  reverential  air  ! 
How  simple  is  his  eloquence  !  how  soft  his  accents  fall, 
When  pleading  with  the  King  of  kings  to  love  and  bless  us  all ; 
And  when  from  prayer  he  bounds  away  in  innocence  and  joy, 
The  blessing  of  a  smiling  God  goes  with  the  sinless  boy  ; 
A  little  lambkin  of  the  flock,  within  the  Saviour's  fold, 
Is  he  my  lovely  step-son,  that's  only  five  years  old. 

I  have  not  told  you  of  our  home,  that  in  the  summer  hours, 
Stands  in  its  simple  modesty  half  hid  among  the  flowers  ; 
I  have  not  said  a  single  word  about  our  mines  of  wealth — 
Our  treasures  are  this  little  boy,  contentment,  peace,  and  health ; 
For  even  a  lordly  hall  to  us  would  be  a  voiceless  place 
Without  the  gush  of  his  glad  voice,  the  gleams  of  his  bright  face  ; 
And  many  a  courtly  pair,  I  ween,  would  give  their  gems  and  gold 
For  a  noble  happy  boy  like  ours,  some  four  or  five  years  old. 


TO  A  HUMMING-BIRD. 

A  merry  welcome  to  thee,  glittering  bird  ! 

Lover  of  summer  flowers  and  sunny  things  ! 
A  night  hath  passed  since  my  young  buds  have  heard 

The  music  of  thy  rainbow-colored  wings — 
Wings,  that  flash  sparkles  out  where'er  they  quiver, 
Like  sudden  sunlight  rushing  o'er  a  river. 


A  merry  welcome  and  a  treat  for  thee  ! 

Here  are  fresh  blossoms  opening  bright  and  new, 
Ready  to  yield  thee,  for  thy  melody, 

Their  first  rich  sighs  and  drops  of  honey-dew, 
Opening  their  blushing  petals  to  the  glances 
Of  silvery  sheen,  that  round  thy  light  form  dances. 


'■   %  flOa/nfa^J 


100  TO    A    HUMMING-BIRD. 

Methinks  thou'rt  early  out — the  queenly  night 

Her  star-gemmed  curtain  scarce  has  folded  back ; 

And  now  the  glorious  sun,  a  monarch  bright, 
Bursts  forth  into  his  gold-pavilioned  track, 

Kissing  from  dew- bent  flowers  the  tears  of  even, 

And  scattering  the  bright  mists  from  earth  and  heaven. 


How  fair  is  all  around  !   and  thou,  bright  thing, 
Though  but  a  speck,  a  brilliant  one  thou  art ; 

I  almost  think  the  humming  of  thy  wing 
Must  be  the  merry  echoes  of  thy  heart ; 

For  what  if  other  birds  have  happier  voices  ? 

Thou  need'st  not  care — thy  very  wing  rejoices. 


Child  of  the  sunshine  !    bird  of  summer  hours  ! 

Brief  is  thy  life,  yet  happy  as  'tis  brief, 
For  thou  wilt  pass  away  when  bloom-touched  flowers 

Are  fading  from  the  green  earth,  leaf  by  leaf; 
I  envy  thee,  for  when  the  things  we  cherish 
Are  withering  round,  'tis  meet  with  them  to  perish. 


TO    A    HUMMING-BIRD.  101 

Here  thou  mayst  banquet  till  the  first  faint  gleams 
Of  twilight  wander  o'er  the  face  of  day, 

Wooing  our  spirits  to  the  land  of  dreams ; 
Then  on  a  sunbeam  thou  wilt  flit  away ; 

But,  at  the  earliest  dawn  of  morning's  hour, 

I'll  welcome  thee  again  unto  my  bower. 

9* 


THE  BROKEN-HEARTED. 

She  faded  slowly  mid  unwithering  roses ; 

In  the  first  flush  of  youth,  her  heart  had  been 
Bright  as  a  full  bud  when  it  first  discloses 

Its  summer  tints  beneath  its  hood  of  green ; 
For  there  was  one  to  whom  her  heart  she'd  given, 

Yet  she  had  won  no  vow  of  love  from  him, 
And  shadows  gathered  o'er  her  sunny  heaven 

Till  e'en  the  lingering  star  of  hope  grew  dim. 

Life  had  to  her  been  sweet  as  music  measures, 
That  steal  forth  from  a  lute  on  some  faint  breeze, 

And  her  sweet  thoughts  were  like  uncounted  treasures, 
That  cluster  in  the  depths  of  trembling  seas ; 


THE    BROKEN-HEARTED.  103 

There  played  around  her  lip  a  smile  so  winning, 
And  in  her  eye  there  shone  such  tenderness, 

That  none  could  look  on  her  and  dream  of  sinning, 
She  was  so  pure  in  virgin  loveliness. 

'Twas  when  soft  summer  winds  were  lightly  stirring, 

One  golden  eve  in  bright  midsummer  time, 
That  first,  with  honeyed  words  and  looks  endearing, 

He  stole  within  her  path  in  manhood's  prime  ; 
And  when  sweet  jasmine  vines  their  wreaths  were  looping 

Around  her  bower,  beneath  their  fragrant  shade 
With  her  fair  head  upon  his  bosom  drooping, 

She'd  list  entranced  to  all  the  loved  one  said. 

And  at  the  hour,  when  silvery  dew-drops  slumbered 

Upon  the  whispering  grass  and  young  rose-leaves, 
With  restless  heart  each  quiet  star  she  numbered, 

For  he  would  seek  her  side  at  starry  eves  ; 
And  though  beneath  his  glance  her  heart  would  quiver, 

And  her  voice,  when  to  him  she  spoke  or  sung, 
Seemed  like  the  sad  moan  of  a  low- voiced  river, 

Still  in  his  presence  tremblingly  she  hung. 


104  THE    BROKEN-HEARTED. 

But  when  she  found  he  loved  her  as  a  brother 

Would  love  a  gentle  sister,  with  deep  art 
She  tried  each  wild  and  wayward  thought  to  smother, 

But  'twas  a  bitter  task — it  broke  her  heart ; 
For,  though  her  red  lips  woke  a  strain  of  gladness, 

A  tear  into  her  hazel  eye  would  spring, 
And  in  its  depths  there  shone  a  dreamy  sadness, 

That  told  of  deep  distress  and  sorrowing. 

But,  when  far,  far  away  o'er  dell  and  mountain, 

He  left  her  side  to  seek  a  distant  land, 
Love  still  hung  weeping  over  Memory's  fountain, 

And  her  young  brow  drooped  on  her  pale  thin  hand ; 
And  when  the  peeping  flowers  of  spring  were  wreathing, 

And  the  soft  air  was  burdened  with  perfume, 
Life's  last  sad  music  on  her  lip  was  breathing, 

And  she  was  lightly  gathered  to  the  tomb. 


THE  YOUNG  LOVERS. 

She  was  a  witching  creature,  o'er  whose  head 

Scarce  eighteen  summers  on  bright  wings  had  flown, 

Into  whose  spirit  poetry  had  shed 

Her  sweetest  odors,  breathed  fresh  from  her  own ; 

Pure  modesty  around  her  light  form  spread 
Her  spotless  drapery,  and,  like  a  zone, 

Beauty  encircled  her,  for  her  wild  glances 

Spell-bound  all  hearts  in  sweet  bewildering  trances. 

Her  beauty  was  of  a  mysterious  kind, 

Baffling  the  pencil,  that  its  charms  would  trace, 

For  the  rich  depths  of  her  illumined  mind 

Such  flitting  gleams  gave  to  her  love-toned  face, 


106  THE     YOUNG     LOVERS. 

That  the  spell-taken  eye  could  ever  find 

Some  charm  unseen  before ;  a  willowy  grace 
Played  in  the  movements  of  her  form,  just  moulded 
Into  soft  roundness,  like  a  rose  unfolded. 

Her  step  was  lighter  than  the  wanton  breeze, 
That  breathes  its  love-sighs  to  the  dreamy  hours 

And  graceful  as  light  vapors  o'er  the  seas, 
Melting  away  in  soft  and  dewy  showers, 

Whiie,  with  a  simple  grace  and  natural  ease, 
She  half  reclined  upon  a  bed  of  flowers, 

And  o'er  her  shoulder,  rainbow  like,  there  bended 

A  youth,  whose  sighs  with  her  warm  breathings  blended. 

He  was  a  being  e'en  more  glorious  still ; 

The  seal  of  genius  on  his  brow  was  seen, 
With  thoughts  bright  as  the  dews  that  flowers  distil, 

When  leaves  dance  in  the  starlight  fresh  and  green  ; 
His  was  a  voice  rich  as  a  harp's  deep  thrill, 

A  large  dark  eagle-eye,  and  noble  mien, 
Yet  with  a  heart  so  tuned  to  softest  measures, 
His  very  face  beamed  forth  bewildering  pleasures. 


THE     YOUNG     LOVERS.  107 

As  o'er  her  drooping  form  he  softly  bent, 
The  pressure  of  his  lip  was  on  her  brow, 

While  to  her  cheek  the  warm  blood  came  and  went, 
Varying  each  moment  with  her  rich  thoughts'  flow, 

For  each,  within  her  heaving  bosom  pent, 

Seemed  struggling  on  her  up-turned  face  to  glow, 

While  tell-tale  dimples,  in  her  cheeks  appearing, 

Told  that  a  sweet  love-thought  her  heart  was  stirring. 

For  closely  round  that  young  and  happy  pair 
Passion  had  wove  her  softest,  sweetest  ties, 

While,  like  two  spirits  fresh  from  heaven,  there 
They  sat  beneath  their  own  blue  native  skies, 

He  playing  with  some  stray  tress  of  her  hair 
And  gazing  mutely  in  her  melting  eyes, 

While  from  their  glowing  glances  both  were  drinking 

The  passionate  love  that  in  their  hearts  was  sinking. 


THE  BLIND  GIRL'S  LAMENT. 

I  sit  beneath  the  grape-vine,  that  o'ercreepeth 

The  humble  arch  above  our  cottage  door, 
While  on  its  purple  clusters  softly  sleepeth 

The  holy  radiance  that  the  moonbeams  pour ; 
The  joyous  song-bird  in  the  starlight  singeth 

Unto  the  dreaming  buds  its  vesper  hymn, 
But  not  a  single  ray  of  gladness  springeth 

Within  my  heart — alas  !  my  eye  is  dim. 

I  know  the  hour  when  silent-footed  even 
Puts  on  her  shadowy  mantle  light  and  fair, 

When,  as  she  waves  her  wand  o'er  earth  and  heaven, 
The  stars  float  up  within  the  soft  blue  air; 


THE     BLIND     GIRL'S     LAMENT.  109 

'Tis  then  I  fling  aside  my  long  loose  tresses 

Unto  the  kisses  of  the  wanton  wind, 
And  strive  to  sing  and  smile,  but  ah  !  there  presses 

A  gloomy  pall  upon  me — I  am  blind. 

O !  could  I  steal  forth,  when  the  daylight  fadeth 

From  rock  and  tree,  to  greet  the  summer  eves, 
To  watch  the  primrose,  that  from  sunlight  shadeth 

Its  golden  cup,  unfold  its  twilight  leaves, 
To  lay  my  warm  brow  to  the  breeze  that  wooeth 

The  wild  sea-ripples  to  the  sounding  shore — 
The  soft  south  breeze  that  perfume  round  us  streweth — 

But  ah  !  'tis  vain — my  eye  is  shaded  o'er. 

My  little  sister  often  softly  layeth 

Her  velvet  cheek  to  mine,  and  bids  me  go 

Where  the  young  moss-rose  its  soft  bloom  displayeth, 
And  the  wild  daisies  in  their  brightness  glow  ; 

I  hear  her  small  feet  as  she  lightly  dances 
Like  a  winged  fairy  o'er  the  emerald  grass, 

She  thinks  not  of  her  sister's  clouded  glances, 

For  where  she  trips  the  blind  girl  may  not  pass. 
10 


J 10  THE     BLIND     GIRL    S     LAMENT. 

When  my  young  brother  in  his  beauty  boundeth 

Up  with  the  lark  to  greet  the  morning  sky, 
While  through  the  forest-aisles  his  laugh  resoundeth, 

The  tear-drops  gather  to  my  darkened  eye  ; 
And  when,  with  rosy  cheek  and  bright  eye  burning, 

He  seeks  my  side  in  all  his  boyish  glee, 
My  heart  is  troubled  with  a  secret  yearning 

To  meet  his  glance — but  ah  !  I  cannot  see. 

My  meek  fond  mother  tells  me  I  am  brighter 

Than  the  sweet  flowers  she  twines  amid  my  hair ; 
She  thinks  her  praise  will  make  my  spirit  lighter, 

But  O  !  I  pine  not  to  be  bright  or  fair ; 
I  may  be  lovelier  than  the  violet  flower, 

That  shines,  they  say,  beneath  its  broad  leaves  hid, 
But  beauty  is  to  me  a  worthless  dower, 

While  darkly  rolls  mine  eye  beneath  its  lid. 

1  cannot  gaze  upon  their  pleasant  faces, 
Where  the  soft  light  of  beauty  ever  beams, 

Yet  on  my  mind  their  fair  forms  Fancy  traces, 

And  their  deep  looks  pierce  through  my  nightly  dreams  ; 


THE     BLIND     GIRL's     LAMENT.  Ill 

I  feel  my  mother's  soft  eye  as  it  flashes 

Like  a  lone  star  that  looks  down  from  the  sky, 

Trembling  so  softly  'neath  its  silky  lashes, 
Yet,  when  I  wake,  'tis  with  a  darkened  eye. 

Ah  !  little  know  they  of  the  dreamy  sadness 

That  shadows  o'er  my  spirit's  viewless  urn, 
For  they  can  look  out  on  the  free  world's  gladness, 

Where  blossoms  blow,  and  stars  shoot  out  and  burn, 
While  I  must  sit,  a  fair  yet  darkened  flower, 

Amid  the  bright  band  gathered  round  our  hearth, 
The  only  sad  thing  in  our  sweet  home  bower — 

O !  for  one  glance  upon  the  fresh  green  earth ! 


TO 


Wilt  thou  not  think  of  me  with  mournful  heart, 
When  our  warm  lips  and  clasping  hands  shall  part  ? 

And  in  thy  soul's  deep  cell 
Will  not  my  memory  be  treasured  up, 
Fresh  as  the  dews  that  in  the  lily's  cup 

In  sweetness  dwell  ? 


And,  as  those  dropping  dews  upon  the  flowers 
Sweeten  their  leaves  through  all  the  dreamy  hours 

When  weary  eyelids  close, 
So  may  my  memory,  in  thine  hours  of  gloom, 
Be  to  thy  soul  a  balm,  a  soft  perfume, 

To  soothe  thy  woes. 


TO 113 

I'd  have  thee  think  of  me  when  thou  art  gone, 
As  one  round  whom  a  fairy  spell  is  thrown 

Of  bright  poetic  dreams, 
Whose  sweet  wild  thoughts,  from  their  unfathomed  fount, 
The  heart,  like  flashing  waters,  upward  mount 

In  sparkling  gleams. 


And,  when  thy  wandering  feet  are  roaming  o'er 
The  golden  sands  of  some  bright,  distant  shore, 

Where  the  soft-chanting  waves 
Murmur  their  dirge-like  music  low  and  deep 
Over  the  depths  where  wild,  wild  spirits  sleep 

In  their  dark  caves — 


Then  think  of  her  whose  heart,  'mid  scenes  like  these, 

Would  thrill  and  echo  to  each  passing  breeze 

And  to  the  water's  chime — 

Into  whose  eyes  unbidden  tears  would  rush, 

Till  from  her  heart  her  feelings  all  would  gush 

In  untaught  rhyme. 

10* 


114  TO 

And  when  Night  spreads  o'er  all  her  sable  shroud, 
The  time  when  sweet  emotions  softly  crowd 

Within  the  human  breast, 
Will  not  the  memory  of  these  thoughts  of  love, 
Scarce  owned  by  us,  yet  registered  above, 

Make  thee  more  blessed ! 


By  the  love-links  that  round  our  young  hearts  wreathe, 
By  all  we  feel,  but  cannot,  dare  not  breathe, 

Whate'er  may  be  our  lot, 
And  by  thy  fond  glance  melting  into  mine, 
I  ask  of  thee,  where'er  that  glance  may  shine 

Forget  me  not ! 


HE  CAME  TOO  LATE. 

He  came  too  late — he  came  too  late 

To  soothe  her  spirit's  silent  anguish, 
So  deep  her  love,  so  sad  her  fate, 

So  sweetly  lost,  she  seemed  to  languish ; 
His  gift  of  love,  the  ring  of  gold, 

Had  fallen  from  her  wasted  finger, 
Her  lips  were  pale,  where  smiles  of  old, 

In  dimpling  sweetness,  loved  to  linger; 
Yet  still  she  kept  his  broken  vow, 

Still  hoarded  up  his  every  token; 
But  death  the  lone  one,  claims  her  now — 

He  came  too  late,  her  heart  was  broken. 


116  HE     CAME     TOO     LATE. 

I  saw  her  once — her  locks  of  gold, 

Intwined  with  many  a  radiant  blossom, 
Back  from  her  snow-white  forehead  rolled, 

And  floated  o'er  her  swelling  bosom. 
Around  her  slight  and  matchless  form 

A  thousand  graces  seemed  to  hover : 
'Twas  moulded  to  a  perfect  charm, 

Yet  pining  for  a  faithless  lover : 
I  passed  her  by,  yet  on  my  ear 

Her  bird-like  voice  came  ringing  after ; 
I  little  thought,  a  struggling  tear 

Was  lost  amid  its  silvery  laughter. 


He  came  too  late — in  days  of  old, 

When  by  her  side  he  loved  to  wander, 
And  time  that  makes  the  heart  grow  cold, 

But  served  to  make  his  bosom  fonder, 
That  heart,  in  which  he  seemed  to  live, 

Was  yielded  up  with  bashful  pleasure, 
And  though  'twas  all  she  had  to  give, 

That  heart  was  in  itself  a  treasure ; 


HE     CAME     TOO     LATE.  117 

He  left  her — 'mid  the  vain  and  great 

He  never  found  so  fair  a  blossom ; 
He  came  at  last,  but  O  !  too  late — 

She  slept  within  her  Saviour's  bosom. 

Strange  that  the  love-lorn  heart  will  beat 

With  rapture  wild  amid  its  folly — 
No  grief  so  soft,  no  pain  so  sweet 

As  love's  delicious  melancholy. 
And  thus,  though  life  and  hope  grew  dim, 

She  nursed  the  flame  she  could  not  smother ; 
It  seemed  more  sweet  to  die  for  him 

Than  live  the  worshipped  of  another. 
And  did  Contentment  fold  its  wing 

Around  his  heart  while  hers  was  riven  ? 
No  !  in  his  bosom  lurked  the  sting — 

He  came,  but  she  had  flown  to  heaven. 

He  came  too  late — once,  sweetly  blessed, 
She  reigned  amid  earth's  radiant  creatures ; 

No  smiling  nymph  had  e'er  possessed 
A  fairer  form,  or  lovelier  features. 


118  .    HE     CAME     TOO     LATE. 

Joy  lit  her  eye's  delighted  beam, 

Love  dwelt  in  its  impassioned  glances 
Yet  filled  it  with  that  heavenly  gleam, 

That  sweetly  awes  while  it  entrances ; 
Yet,  as  the  ring-dove  mourns  its  mate, 

She  pined  for  him  the  faithless-hearted 
He  came,  but  O !  he  came  too  late, 

For  she,  the  loved  one,  had  departed. 


THE  AMERICAN  SWORD. 

Sword  of  our  gallant  fathers,  defender  of  the  brave, 
Of  Washington  upon  the  field  and  Perry  on  the  wave  !     * 
Well  might  Columbia's  foemen  beneath  thy  death-strokes  reel, 
For  each  hand  was  firm  that  drew  thee,  and  each  heart  as  true 

as  steel ; 
There's  not  a  tarnish  on  thy  sheen,  a  rust  upon  thy  blade  ; 
Though  the  noble  hands  that  drew  thee  are  in  dust  and  ashes  laid, 
Thou'rt  still  the  scourge  of  tyrants,  the  safeguard  of  the  free, 
And  may  God  desert  our  banner  when  we  surrender  thee  ! 


Sword  of  a  thousand  victories  !  thy  splendors  led  the  way, 
When  our  warriors  trod  the  battle-field  in  terrible  array  ; 
Thou  wert  seen  amid  the  carnage,  like  an  angel  in  thy  wrath ; 
The  vanquished  and  the  vanquisher  bestrewed  thy  gory  path  ; 


120  THE    AMERICAN    SWORD. 

The  life-blood  of  the  haughty  foe  made  red  the  slippery  sod 
Where  thy  crimson  blade  descended  like  the  lightning  glance  of 

God! 
They  poured  their  ranks  like  autumn  leaves,  their  life-blood  as 

the  sea, 
But  they  battled  for  a  tyrant — we  battled  to  be  free  ! 


Sword  of  a  thousand  heroes,  how  holy  is  thy  blade, 
So  often  drawn  by  Valor's  arm,  by  gentle  Pity's  stayed  ! 
The  warrior  breathes  his  vow  by  thee,  and  seals  it  with  a  kiss, 
He  never  gives  a  holier  pledge,  he  asks  no  more  than  this  ; 
And,  when  he  girds  thee  to  his  side  with  battle  in  his  face, 
He  feels  within  his  single  arm  the  strength  of  all  his  race  ; 
He  shrines  thee  in  his  noble  breast,  with  all  things  bright  and  free  ; 
And  may  God  desert  his  standard,  when  he  surrenders  thee  ! 


Sword  of  our  country's  battles  !  forever  mayst  thou  prove, 
Amid  Columbia's  freemen,  the  thunderbolt  of  Jove  ; 
Where  like  a  youthful  victress,  with  her  holy  flag  unfurled, 
She  sits  amid  the  nations,  the  empress  of  the  world. 


THE    AMERICAN    SWORD.  123 

Behold  the  heaven-born  goddess,  in  her  glory  and  increase, 

Extending  in  her  lovely  hands  the  olive-branch  of  peace, 

Thy  glittering  steel  is  girded  on,  the  safeguard  of  the  free, 

And  may  God  desert  her  standard  when  she  surrenders  thee  ! 

11 


VIOLA. 

She  hath  passed  like  a  bird  from  the  minstrel  throng, 
She  has  gone  to  the  land  where  the  lovely  belong  ' 
Her  place  is  hushed  by  her  lover's  side, 
Yet  his  heart  is  full  of  his  fair  young  bride ; 
The  hopes  of  his  spirit  are  crushed  and  bowed 
As  he  thinks  of  his  love  in  her  long  white  shroud ; 
For  the  fragrant  sighs  of  her  perfumed  breath 
Were  kissed  from  her  lips  by  his  rival — Death. 

Cold  is  her  bosom,  her  thin  white  arms 
All  mutely  crossed  o'er  its  icy  charms, 
As  she  lies,  like  a  statue  of  Grecian  art, 
With  a  marble  brow  and  a  cold  hushed  heart. 


VIOLA.  123 

Her  locks  were  bright,  but  their  gloss  is  hid, 
Her  eye  is  sunk  'neath  its  waxen  lid : 
And  thus  she  lies  in  her  narrow  hall — 
Our  fair  young  minstrel — the  loved  of  all. 

Light  as  a  bird's  were  her  springing  feet, 

Her  heart  as  joyous,  her  song  as  sweet ; 

Yet  never  again  shall  that  hei*rt  be  stirred 

With  its  glad  wild  songs  like  a  singing  bird ; 

Never  again  shall  the  strains  be  sung, 

That  in  sweetness  dropped  from  her  silver  tongue ; 

The  music  is  over,  and  Death's  cold  dart 

Hath  broken  the  spell  of  that  free  glad  heart. 

Often  at  eve  when  tne  breeze  is  still, 
And  the  moon  floats  up  by  the  distant  hill, 
As  I  wander  alone  'mid  the  summer  bowers, 
And  wreathe  my  locks  with  the  sweet  wild  flowers, 
I  will  think  of  the  time  when  she  lingered  there 
With  her  mild  blue  eyes,  and  her  long  fair  hair ; 
I  will  treasure  her  name  in  my  bosom-core : 
But  my  heart  is  sad — I  can  sing  no  more. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

If  all  those  bright  stars  in  yon  azure-arched  heaven 
Are  the  mansions  of  rest  for  the  pure  ones  of  earth, 
I  hope  I  may  dwell  in  yon  bright  star  of  even, 
For  they  say  that  it  smiled  o'er  the  place  of  my  birth. 


When  all  the  sweet  voices  are  mute  that  have  blessed  me, 
And  my  form  from  the  green  earth  is  fading  away, 
O  !  then  in  that  pure  star  how  sweetly  I'll  rest  me, 
And  linger  forever  within  its  mild  ray. 


Soft  star,  when  around  me  the  weary  are  sleeping, 
And  all  the  bright  blossoms  their  velvet  leaves  close, 
If  thou  art  above  me  thy  silent  watch  keeping, 
My  bosom  is  calm  as  I  sink  to  repose. 


TO    THE    EVENING    STAR.  L25 

I  feel  'neath  thy  soft  beam  a  holy  devotion, 

That  hushes  my  light  tones  of  laughter  and  glee ; 

Mine  eyelids  are  wet  with  a  tearful  emotion, 

For  my  warm  heart  is  melting  while  gazing  on  thee. 


As  the  long  dreamy  hours  the  lone  captive  numbers, 
From  his  iron-bound  casement  he  looks  on  thy  beam, 
Till,  losing  his  sorrows,  he  sinks  to  his  slumbers, 
While  o'er  his  wild  spirit  there  steals  a  sweet  dream. 


When  the  sailor-boy  roams  o'er  the  tempest-tossed  ocean, 
And  thinks  of  the  fond  ones  he  never  may  see, 
He'll  murmur  a  prayer  'mid  the  billows'  commotion 
For  the  loved  and  the  absent,  while  gazing  on  thee. 


How  sweet  to  my  bosom  the  soothing  reflection, 

That,  should  some  rude  blight  all  my  earthly  hopes  mar, 

From  the  depths  of  my  heart  the  pure  waves  of  affection 

May  gush  in  their  sweetness  to  thee,  gentle  star. 

11* 


126  TO    THE    EVENING    STAR. 

When  all  the  wild  faults  of  my  youth  are  forgiven, 
And  the  light  of  thy  pale  beam  no  longer  I  see, 
And  the  last  earthly  link  from  my  spirit  is  riven, 
With  an  angel's  light  pinion  I'll  waft  me  to  thee. 


BREATHE   NOT  A  SIGH. 

Bkeathe  not  a  sigh  when  we  are  parting- 

'Tis  vain  to  sigh : 
Nor  let  a  single  tear  be  starting 

In  thy  soft  eye. 


I  know  'tis  sad  for  hearts  like  ours, 

So  warm  and  true, 
To  pine  for  loving  smiles,  as  flowers 

Languish  for  dew. 


Yet  I  shall  have  sweet  thoughts  to  cheer  me 

When  thou  art  gone, 
For,  in  my  dreams,  will  linger  near  me 

The  absent  one. 


128  BREATHE    NOT    A    SIGH. 

And,  as  those  dreams  at  pensive  even 

Steal  over  me, 
I'll  lift  my  melting  heart  to  heaven 

In  prayer  for  thee. 


Through  the  deep  gloom  that  darkens  o'er  thee, 

The  star  of  fame 
Shines  like  a  beacon-light  before  thee — 

Go  !  win  a  name. 


And  then  if  thou  shouldst  woo  another 

To  be  thy  bride, 
Although  my  thoughts  I  cannot  smother, 

I  will  not  chide. 


But  shouldst  thou  hear  that  grief  is  paling 
My  young  cheek's  bloom, 

That  Death  my  slender  form  is  veiling 
For  the  dark  tomb — 


BREATHE    NOT    A    SIGH.  129 

Then  let  thy  lip  be  softly  sighing 

Like  a  low  lute, 
Breathing  its  music  o'er  the  dying 

For  sweet  lips  mute. 


And  when  these  hands  thou'st  clasped  so  often, 

Are  cold  and  chill, 
And  this  warm  heart  no  tone  can  soften 

To  love's  sweet  thrill — 


Then,  though  light  airy  forms  assemble 

Where  thine  will  be, 
I  know  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 

Still  true  to  me, 


THE  DYING  GIRL. 

The  fitful  breeze,  that,  through  the  sultry  day, 
Had  fanned  the  fainting  blossoms  with  its  breath, 
Stole  through  the  open  lattice,  where  there  lay 
A  pale  young  girl  upon  the  couch  of  death ; 
Her  glance  was  fixed  upon  the  moon,  that  rolled 
Through  blue  and  starlight  in  the  vaulted  sky, 
As  if  she  knew  her  fleeting  hours  were  told, 
And  wished  to  take  one  lingering  look  and  die. 

Beside  that  humble  couch,  there  dropped  one  form, 
The  gentle  mother  of  the  dying  one, 
For  grief  had  bowed  her  spirit,  as  the  storm 
Bends  the  soft  rose  upon  its  emerald  throne ; 
There  lay  her  child,  the  beautiful,  the  young, 
The  breath  just  sighing  on  her  lip  of  snow, 
And  her  soft  ringlets,  all  dishevelled,  flung 
Back  from  the  whiteness  of  her  deathly  brow. 


THE     DYING     GIRL.  131 

Sadly  she  bent  above  her ;  though  her  look 
Was  tearless  as  she  sought  her  daughter's  eye. 
Yet  her  lip  quivered  like  a  bright  leaf,  shook 
By  the  strong  tempest  as  it  sweeps  the  sky  ; 
"  Daughter  !"  she  murmured,  and  the  maiden  turned 
Unto  her  mother's  face  her  mournful  glance, 
In  which  life's  flickering  taper  wildly  burned, 
For  she  was  startled  as  if  from  a  trance. 

And,  at  that  voice  so  thrilling  to  her  ear, 
A  thousand  tender  thoughts  her  heart  oppressed, 
Till  to  her  blue  eye  tear-drop  followed  tear, 
And  the  white  linen  heaved  above  her  breast ; 
About  her  mother's  neck  she  softly  threw 
Her  pale  thin  arms,  nestling  her  young  head 
Within  her  sheltering  bosom,  dashed  the  dew 
From  her  soft  cheek,  and  in  low  accents  said — 

Mother,  my  hour  is  come, 
The  wing  of  death  is  o'er  me,  for  my  brow 
Is  damp  and  chill — sweet  mother,  I  must  go 

Down  to  the  silent  tomb. 


132  THE     DYING     GIRL 

Yet  not  for  this  I  grieve  ; 
It  is  to  think  that  I  am  leaving  thee 
Poor  and  unfriended — mother,  thou  wilt  be 

Alone  at  morn  and  eve. 


And  through  the  long,  long  day, 
Thou'lt  sit  with  breaking  heart  above  thy  task, 
Earning  thy  daily  bread,  while  others  bask 

In  fortune's  sunny  ray. 


For  on  thy  heart  will  press 
A  thousand  memories  of  thy  buried  child, 
And  thou  wilt  pour  thy  weepings  long  and  wild, 

In  utter  loneliness. 


And,  in  the  time  of  sleep, 
Thou'lt  turn  to  kiss  me  as  thou  oft  hast  done, 
But  memory  will  whisper  "  she  is  gone," 

And  thou  wilt  wake  and  weep. 


THE     DYING     GIRL.  133 

Before  my  father  died, 
We  dwelt  beneath  our  own  bright  stately  halls, 
Round  which  blue  streams  and  silver  fountain-falls 

Were  seen  to  glide. 


There,  on  the  evening  breeze 
In  summer-time,  no  harsher  sound  was  heard 
Than  the  low  flutter  of  some  singing  bird, 

Startled  among  the  trees. 


And  there,  beside  our  hearth, 
Thou'st  often  knelt  and  offered  up  to  God 
My  infant  spirit,  pure  as  snow  untrod, 

And  free  from  taint  of  earth. 


But  now,  how  changed  thy  lot ! 

Strangers  are  dwelling  in  our  once  bright  home, 

While  thou  art  pent  within  this  close  dark  room, 

Unaided  and  forgot. 

12 


134  THE     DYING     GIRL. 

I  have  been  like  a  spell, 
Binding  thee  unto  earth,  but  death  hath  pressed 
His  cold  and  heavy  hand  upon  my  breast — 

Mother,  I  go — farewell ! 

Slowly  her  arms  unwound  their  wreathing  clasp 
Around  her  mother's  neck,  and  her  fair  head 
Fell  heavy  back,  while  a  low  lengthened  gasp 
Stirred  her  cold  marble  bosom — she  was  dead. 
Silent  that  mother  gazed,  the  mighty  flood 
Of  grief  within  her  breast  she  strove  to  hide, 
For  it  seemed  sin  to  weep,  while  thus  she  stood 
Above  the  holy  dead,  the  sanctified. 

It  was  no  time  to  mourn,  for  she  had  yet 

A  bitter  mournful  duty  to  fulfil, 

To  press  the  eyelids  o'er  the  blue  orbs  set, 

To  close  the  sweet  lips  smiling  on  her  still ; 

She  laid  the  ringlets  round  the  lifeless  face, 

And  wrapped  the  loose  shroud  round  the  slender  form, 

That  lay  in  mute  and  melancholy  grace 

As  if  spell-bound  in  slumber  soft  and  warm. 


THE     DYING     GIRL.  135 

And  when  the  stars  of  night  began  to  wane, 
And  the  warm  sun  had  chased  away  the  gloom, 
Strange  forms  were  seen  around  the  lattice-pane, 
That  looked  into  that  dim  and  dreary  room; 
And  as  they  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door, 
They  found  her  drooping  by  her  daughter's  bed, 
Her  raven  tresses  streaming  o'er  the  floor 
And  her  dark  glassy  eye  fixed  on  the  dead. 

0  !  'twas  indeed  a  sadly  touching  sight, 

For  her  white  hand  lay  pressed  upon  her  heart, 

As  if  to  quell  within  the  spirit's  might, 

And  her  cold  purple  lips  were  half  apart : 

They  raised  her  from  the  spot  where  she  had  knelt 

In  the  meek  attitude  of  holy  prayer, 

And  with  the  nicest  touch  her  bosom  felt, 

Seeking  for  life  and  warmth — but  death  was  there! 


THE  NEGLECTED  HARP. 

O  !  why  art  thou  left,  thou  lone  harp,  here, 
With  none  to  awake  thy  slumbers, 

Save  the  minstrel  wind  as  it  lingers,  near 
To  call  forth  thy  plaintive  numbers  ! 


O  sadly  sweet  is  the  wild,  wild  strain, 
That  over  thy  light  chords  lingers; 

For  ne'er  will  those  light  chords  breathe  again 
To  the  touch  of  a  mortal's  fingers. 


The  hand,  that  once  caused  thy  chords  to  thrill, 

A  lovelier  harp  may  awaken, 
But  the  spirit  of  music  will  haunt  thee  still, 

Although  by  that  hand  forsaken. 


THE     NEGLECTED     HARP.  137 

And  she,  who  around  thee  roses  flung, 
May  wreathe  them  in  brighter  bowers ; 

Yet  sweetness  around  thy  chords  hath  clung, 
And  perfume  around  thy  flowers. 


I  pity  thee  for  each  altered  tone, 
That  once  gushed  forth  in  gladness, 

For  now,  like  a  charmless  thing,  thou'rt  thrown 
To  breathe  out  those  tones  in  sadness. 


I  pity  thee  for  each  music-sigh, 
Lost  on  the  winds  of  heaven, 

For  the  wasted  flow  of  thy  melody, 
To  the  wandering  zephyrs  given. 


Ah  !  thus  it  is  with  fond  woman's  heart, 

When  love  comes  o'er  it  stealing; 

To  each  thrilling  touch  its  chords  impart 

The  music  of  every  feeling. 
12* 


138  THE     NEGLECTED     HARP. 

I 

Sorrow  may  o'er  her  spirit  come, 
Her  brightest  dreams  dispelling, 

Yet  still,  like  a  flower,  her  heart  will  bloom 
If  love  in  its  depths  is  swelling. 


And  e'en  should  the  spell,  round  her  warm  heart  wove, 
Be  broke  by  the  being  that  bound  it, 

Still  memory  will  sweep  o'er  its  chords  of  love, 
And  sweetness  will  linger  around  it. 


I  mourn,  thou  harp,  for  no  touch  may  bring 
Back  thy  sweet  tones  departed, 

Yet  more  do  I  mourn,  thou  wailing  thing, 
O'er  the  lost  and  the  broken-hearted. 


THE  STARS. 

Love  ye  the  blossoms,  whose  rosy  tints,  blending, 
Glow  bright  as  the  hues  of  our  own  sunny  sky, 

When  their  young  buds  unfolding,  with  fresh  dew-drops  bending, 
Fling  forth  their  rich  breathings  on  each  passer-by? 


Love  ye  the  winds  round  our  fragrant  paths  stealing, 

The  soft  winds  that  sigh  through  the  long  summer  hours, 

As  they  wake  in  the  bosom,  some  long-slumbered  feeling, 
Then  nestle  away  to  the  hearts  of  the  flowers  ? 


Love  ye  those  dreams,  that  so  often  steal  o'er  us, 
When  no  sigh  in  the  breast  its  tranquillity  mars, 

When  visions  of  beauty  dance  gayly  before  us  ? 
Yet  love  ye  not  better  the  stars,  the  bright  stars? 


140  THE    STARS. 

Give,  give  me  the  orbs,  that  in  brightness  are  beaming, 
When  twilight  her  soft  silver  drapery  lowers  ; 

For,  when  stars  are  shining,  who,  who  would  be  dreaming, 
Or  listening  to  wild  winds,  or  gazing  on  flowers  ! 


'Tis  not  that  the  blossoms  have  failed  to  awaken 
Within  my  young  bosom  sweet  feelings  of  love, 

That  so  oft  by  my  glance  their  soft  hues  are  forsaken 
For  those  bright  things,  that  glitter  in  radiance  above. 


For  I  know  that  our  hearts  would  be  dreary  without  them, 
Those  sweet  buds  of  hope  'mid  the  thorns  of  despair ; 

And  may  all  the  beauty  and  perfume  about  them 
Still  brighten  the  green  earth  and  sweeten  the  air. 


Yet  still  I  have  thought,  when  misfortunes  o'ertook  us, 
And  those  we  had  cherished  have  laughed  at  our  doom, 

That  the  flowers  were  emblems  of  those  who  forsook  us, 
For  they  smile  in  the  sunshine,  but  shrink  from  the  gloom. 


THE    STARS.  141 

But  the  stars,  the  soft  stars,  when  they  glitter  above  us, 
I  gaze  on  their  beams  with  a  feeling  divine, 

For,  as  true  friends  in  sorrow  more  tenderly  love  us, 
The  darker  the  hour  the  brighter  they  shine. 


Give,  give  me  the  hour  when  the  day-god  reposing 
Has  sunk  in  the  far  west  behind  his  gold  bars, 

For  when  shades  gather  round  us  and  flowers  are  closing, 
They  burst  forth  in  glory,  the  stars,  the  bright  stars ! 


THE  DEW-DKOP. 

I  am  a  sparkling  drop  of  dew, 

Just  wept  from  yon  silver  star, 
But  drops  of  dew  have  very  few 

To  care  for  what  they  are ; 
For  little  ye  dream,  who  dwell  below, 

Of  all  Pve  wandered  through ; 
Ye  only  know  I  sparkle  so, 

Because  I'm  a  drop  of  dew. 

I  flashed  at  first  with  waves,  that  whirl 
O'er  the  blue,  blue,  tossing  sea ; 

Where  eddies  curl  o'er  beds  of  pearl 
I  wandered  wild  and  free, 


THE    DEW-DROP.  143 

Till  I  chanced  to  spy  an  elfin  king, 

And  I  danced  before  his  view, 
When  the  merry  thing,  with  his  glittering  wing, 

Whisked  off  the  drop  of  dew. 

The  evening  air  with  sweets  was  fraught, 

And  away  we  flitted  far, 
When,  quick  as  thought,  I  was  upward  caught, 

To  yon  lovely  vesper  star ; 
And  I'm  very  sure  a  gentle  charm 

That  bright  thing  round  me  threw, 
For  an  angel  form,  in  her  bosom  warm, 

Enfolded  the  drop  of  dew. 

But  I  slept  not  long  in  yon  starry  bower, 

In  the  bosom  of  my  love, 
For,  in  a  shower,  to  this  primrose  flower, 

She  sent  me  from  above ; 
And  soon  its  moonlight  leaves  will  close, 

But  they  hide  me  not  from  view, 
For  the  wind,  that  flows  o'er  the  young  primrose, 

Will  kiss  off  the  drop  of  dew 


THE  SLEEPING  MilDEM. 

Bright  as  the  spell  of  loveliness 

Cast  round  thee,  maiden,  here, 
Are  the  sweet  dreams,  that  angels  now 

Are  whispering  in  thy  ear ; 
Yes,  very  bright  and  very  sweet 

Those  dreamings  all  must  be, 
Or  else  they  would  not  flit  around 

A  creature  fair  as  thee. 

0  !  beautiful  indeed  thou  art 

As  some  pure  spirit  blest, 
With  thy  gold  tresses  gleaming  soft, 

Like  sunbeams,  o'er  thy  breast ; 


THE    SLEEPING    MAIDEN.  145 

And  thy  rose-tinted  cheek,  now  bright 

As  the  first  blush  of  day, 
Now  faint  as  if  a  zephyr's  sigh 

Could  brush  its  bloom  away — 

And  thy  bright  glances,  gathered  all 

Beneath  each  snowy  lid, 
That,  silken-fringed,  rests  lightly  o'er 

The  beauty  they  have  hid, 
Giving  unto  thy  lovely  face 

A  pensive  twilight  ray, 
Like  that  which  tints  the  summer  sky 

When  sunbeams  fade  away. 

Sweetly  from  thy  deep  dreaming  breast, 

Thy  thoughts  are  gushing  now, 
Like  perfume  up  to  Him,  who  threw 

Such  beauty  o'er  thy  brow ; 
Thoughts,  lovelier,  holier  far  than  those 

That  haunt  thy  waking  hours, 
And  fresh  as  dew-drops  on  the  leaves 

Of  odor-breathing  flowers. 


146  THE    SLEEPING    MAIDEN. 

I  would  that  thou  shouldst  ever  be 

Thus  free  from  weary  care, 
That  thy  young  brow  its  holy  calm 

On  earth  may  ever  wear. 
But,  as  such  perfect  happiness 

To  mortals  is  not  given, 
I'd  have  thee  dream  thy  life  away, 

And  only  wake  in  heaven. 


MY  OWN  NATIVE  LAND. 

0  !  talk  not  to  me  of  fair  Italy's  sky, 

Of  the  soft  perfumed  gales,  that  through  Araby  sigh ; 

1  know  there  is  not  on  this  wide-spreading  earth 
A  land  bright  and  free  as  this  land  of  my  birth ; 
We  have  our  mild  zephyrs  and  bright  sunny  beams, 
Our  fruits  and  our  flowers,  fair  valleys  and  streams ; 
Thy  rocks  and  thy  mountains  are  lofty  and  grand, 
And  brave  are  thy  children,  my  own  native  land. 

If  cowards  and  tyrants  e'er  seek  to  enchain, 
And  bring  to  the  dust  our  proud  spirits  again  ; 
Thy  sons,  still  united,  will  rally  for  thee, 
And  die,  as  they've  lived,  the  exalted  and  free  ! 


148  MY    OWN    NATIVE    LAND. 

O  !  had  I  the  strength  of  my  heart  in  my  hand, 
I'd  fight  for  thy  freedom,  my  own  native  land  ; 
Amid  thy  oppressors  undaunted  I'd  fly, 
And  fling  forth  our  banner  in  triumph  on  high ! 


TO  MRS.  S.  J.  P . 

Lady,  the  last  lay  of  thy  muse's  lyre 

Hath  stirred  the  deep  tides  of  my  youthful  soul ; 
The  strain  hath  lulled  to  rest  each  wild  desire, 

And  soothed  my  feelings  with  its  soft  control ; 
Canst  thou  to  me  thy  magic  power  impart, 
The  power  to  please  the  ear,  and  melt  the  heart  ? 

'Tis  with  an  untaught  hand  I  sweep  the  chords, 
Which  yield  to  thee  their  softest,  sweetest  tone ; 

The  only  melody  my  touch  affords 

Is  wild  and  mournful  as  a  wind-harp's  moan ; 

But  lyre  and  song  are  both  too  weak  to  tell 

The  thoughts,  that  in  my  throbbing  bosom  swell. 

13* 


150  TO    MRS.    S.    J.    P 

But  thou  hast  bid  me  learn  to  quell  and  hush 
My  thrilling  feelings  in  my  bosom  deep, 

To  bid  them  all,  when  forth  they  fain  would  rush, 
Back  to  their  cells,  in  silence  there  to  sleep ; 

Ah !  I  have  long  since  learned  that  bitter  task, 

To  hide  my  feelings  'neath  a  different  mask. 

I  know  thee  not,  and  yet  our  spirits  seem 
Together  linked  by  sympathy  and  love, 

And,  like  the  mingled  waters  of  a  stream, 
Our  thoughts  and  fancies  all  united  rove ; 

Our  hands  were  never  clasped,  our  lips  ne'er  met, 

Yet  still  thine  image  on  my  mind  is  set. 

I  think  of  thee,  sweet  lady,  as  of  one 

Too  pure  to  mix  with  others,  like  some  star 

Shining  in  pensive  beauty  all  alone, 

Kindred  with  those  around,  yet  brighter  far ; 

O  !  if  I  have  one  wish,  it  is  to  be 

Such  as  my  glowing  fancy  pictures  thee  1 


THE  DYING  MOTHER. 

On  breezy  pinion,  mournful  eve  came  singing 

Over  the  silent  hills,  and  to  the  glades 
And  violet-beds  a  stream  of  odors  bringing, 

And  waking  music  in  the  forest  shades  ; 
For  'twas  the  time,  when  the  lone  cotter,  wending 

His  silent  way  along  the  footpaths  dim, 
Sought  his  loved  home,  where  gentle  voices  blending 

Sent  up  the  music  of  an  evening  hymn. 

A  lovely  length  of  moonlit  waters  lightly 
Broke  into  sudden  brightness  on  the  strand, 

While  through  the  sky's  soft  fleecy  fret-work  brightly 
The  stars  looked  out  upon  the  stilly  land; 


152  THE     DYING     MOTHER. 

But  sadly  'neath  them  gleamed  two  lovely  faces, 
(O  !  fearful  things  and  sad  the  stars  do  see,) 

For  they  were  strangers  roaming  through  strange  places- 
A  mother  with  her  boy  beside  her  knee. 

Her  only  shelter  was  the  blue-arched  heaven, 

As  to  her  child's  she  bent  her  earnest  face, 
For  well  she  knew  another  whispering  even 

Would  find  her  form  a  thing  for  Death's  embrace ; 
And,  as  she  saw  the  quivering  tear-drop  springing 

Into  his  eyes,  and  heard  him  ask  for  bread, 
Swift  thoughts,  like  lightning,  through  her  brain  went 
winging, 

And  thus  she  poured  them  o'er  his  fair  young  head. 


Boy  1  I  would  fain  return  thy  fond  caresses, 
But  I  must  put  thee  from  my  heart  away 

On  the  cold  earth  to  lay ; 
And  though  upon  thee  Hunger  harshly  presses, 
Planting  within  thee  deep  its  gnawing  fangs, 

I  cannot  stay  thy  pangs. 


THE     DYING     MOTHER.  153 

For  I  have  wandered  till  I'm  worn  and  weary, 
Seeking  a  shelter  for  thy  little  head. 

Or  a  spare  crust  of  bread ; 
But  have  found  none,  and  now,  heart-sick  and  dreary, 
I  lay  me  down  beneath  the  quiet  sky 

To  bless  thee,  boy,  and  die. 


It  is,  alas !  a  mournful  thing  to  leave  thee 

In  this  cold  world  to  thy  young  thought^  alone ; 

For  O !  when  I  am  gone, 
No  smiling  mother  will  at  eve  receive  thee, 
Bending  o'er  thy  hushed  lip  and  folded  eye — 

Alas  !  that  I  must  die ! 


But  thou  wilt  think  upon  the  prayer  I  taught  thee, 
When  life  with  us  flowed  smoothly  as  a  song 

Our  native  hills  among, 
And  how  at  noontide  1  have  often  brought  thee, 
In  thy  young  beauty,  to  thy  father's  side, 

With  all  a  mother's  pride. 


154  THE     DYING     MOTHER. 

And  when  for  rest  thou  seek'st  the  rich  man's  dwelling, 
Should  he  from  his  bright  mansion  bid  thee  flee, 

Speaking  harsh  things  to  thee, 
Let  not  thy  heart  with  dark  despair  be  swelling, 
For  soft  to  thee  will  be  the  velvet  sod, 

If  thou  wilt  trust  in  God. 


And  each  pale  lily,  o'er  the  waters  stooping, 
From  its  pure  alabaster  vase  will  shed 

A  gleam  about  thy  head ; 
And  the  rich  berries  in  red  clusters  drooping 
From  many  a  bended  bough  in  this  dark  wood, 

Will  be  thy  fragrant  food. 


For  thou  must  wander  by  each  low-voiced  river, 
And  school  thy  timid  heart  to  be  alone 

When  the  night- winds  make  moan ; 
And,  when  the  forest  leaves  above  thee  shiver, 
To  calmly  lay  thee  'neath  their  solemn  shade, 

And  not  to  be  afraid. 


THE     DYING     MOTHER.  155 

For  He,  who  in  his  glory  dwells  above  thee, 
Who  tempereth  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb, 

With  a  deep  Sabbath  calm 
Will  fill  thy  heart,  and  in  his  mercy  love  thee, 
And  on  thy  weakness  bend  a  pitying  eye, 

And  in  thy  need  draw  nigh. 


And  now,  farewell !  the  early  morn  will  wake  thee 
Unto  a  fearful  sight — thy  mother,  child, 

Dead  in  a  forest- wild ; 
And  sudden  sorrow,  like  a  storm  will  shake  thee, 
But  God  will  still  the  tempest  in  thy  breast — 

A  blessing  on  thee  rest ! 


SWEET  BE  THY  DREAMS. 

Sweet  be  thy  dreams  when  balmy  sleep 

Her  soothing  influence  round  thee  throws ! 
What  if  my  faded  eyes  should  weep  ? 

Thine  will  be  folded  to  repose. 
I  know  thou  wilt  not  dream  of  me ; 

Some  lovelier  one  will  haunt  thy  rest ; 
I  care  not  what  those  dreams  may  be, 

So  they  are  sweet  and  thou  art  blessed. 

Bright  be  thy  hopes  !  why  should  one  cloud 
Of  sorrow  dim  thy  radiant  eye  ? 

Go !  mingle  with  the  gay  and  proud, 
And  learn  to  smile,  though  I  may  sigh ; 


SWEET     BE     THY     DREAMS.  157 

Go  !  climb  the  loftiest  steep  of  fame, 
And  wreathe  a  laurel  round  thy  brow  ; 

And  when  thou'st  won  a  glorious  name, 
Low  at  the  shrine  of  beauty  bow. 

Light  be  thy  heart !  why  shouldst  thou  keep 

Sadness  within  its  secret  cells? 
Let  not  thine  eye  one  tear-drop  weep, 

Unless  that  tear  of  rapture  tells ; 
Go  !  shed  on  all  thy  brightest  beams ; 

I  would,  but  must  not,  bid  thee  stay; 
Sweet  vision  of  my  sweetest  dreams  1 

In  dream-like  beauty  pass  away. 

14 


THE  VIOLET'S  SONG  TO  THE  LOST  FAIRY. 

Come  to  me,  fairy  queen, 

Stars  o'er  thee,  lightly 
Floating  in  dazzling  sheen, 

Glimmer  out  brightly ; 
Moonbeams  are  glittering 

On  each  pure  blossom — 
Fold  up  thy  weary  wing, 

Come  to  my  bosom. 

Sleep,  like  a  dewy  cloud, 
On  thy  brow  presses; 

Round  thy  form,  like  a  shroud, 
Droop  thy  fair  tresses : 


THE     VIOLET'S     SONG,     ETC.  159 

Heavy  thine  eyelids  close 

O'er  thy  glance  shaded ; 
I'll  give  thee  soft  repose, 

Thou  lost  and  faded. 

Each  lily's  pearly  cup 

Sheds  out  pale  gleamings ; 

Roses  are  folded  up 

To  their  sweet  dreamings; 

Hark !  how  the  night- winds  pass, 
Mournfully  sighing, 

Through  the  down-trailing  grass- 
Where  art  thou  flying  ? 

Where  the  young  willow-boughs 

Greenly  are  waving, 
Where  the  blue  streamlet  flows 

Sunny  banks  laving, 
There  sit  thy  fairy  few, 

Their  glances  veiling 
'Neath  tears  that  fall  like  dew, 

Thy  loss  bewailing. 


160  THE     VIOLET'S     SONG,     ETC. 

I've  oped  my  azure  bell 

Wide  to  receive  thee, 
Where  if  thou'lt  ever  dwell 

None  may  deceive  thee ; 
I'll  breathe  my  faint  perfume 

On  thy  lip  only — 
Love  thee  through  joy  and  gloom, 

Thou  fair  and  lonely. 


•  ... 


;•  • 


•  •  •  •  • 


TO  A  SEA-SHELL. 

Shell  of  the  bright  sea-waves  ! 
What  is  it,  that  we  hear  in  thy  sad  moan? 
Is  this  unceasing  music  all  thine  own? 

Lute  of  the  ocean-caves  ! 


Or  does  some  spirit  dwell 
In  the  deep  windings  of  thy  chambers  dim, 
Breathing  forever,  in  its  mournful  hymn, 

Of  ocean's  anthem  swell  ? 


Wert  thou  a  murmurer  long 
In  crystal  palaces  beneath  the  seas, 
Ere  from  the  blue  sky  thou  hadst  heard  the  breeze 

Pour  its  full  tide  of  song  ? 


162  TO    A     SEA-SHELL. 

Another  thing  with  thee — 
Are  there  not  gorgeous  cities  in  the  deep, 
Buried  with  flashing  gems  that  brightly  sleep, 

Hid  by  the  mighty  sea? 


And  say,  O  lone  sea-shell ! 
Are  there  not  costly  things  and  sweet  perfumes 
Scattered  in  waste  o'er  that  sea-gulf  of  tombs  ? 

Hush  thy  low  moan  and  tell. 


But  yet,  and  more  than  all — 
Has  not  each  foaming  wave  in  fury  tossed 
O'er  earth's  most  beautiful,  the  brave,  the  lost, 

Like  a  dark  funeral  pall? 


'Tis  vain — thou  answerest  not ! 
Thou  hast  no  voice  to  whisper  of  the  dead ; 
'Tis  ours  alone,  with  sighs  like  odors  shed, 

To  hold  them  unforgot ! 


TO     A     SEA-SHELL.  163 

Thine  is  as  sad  a  strain 
As  if  the  spirit  in  thy  hidden  cell 
Pined  to  be  with  the  many  things,  that  dwell 

In  the  wild  restless  main. 


And  yet  there  is  no  sound 
Upon  the  waters,  whispered  by  the  waves, 
But  seemeth  like  a  wail  from  many  graves, 

Thrilling  the  air  around. 


The  earth,  O  moaning  shell ! 
The  earth  hath  melodies  more  sweet  than  these- 
The  music  gush  of  rills,  the  hum  of  bees 

Heard  in  each  blossom's  bell. 


Are  not  these  tones  of  earth, 
The  rustling  forest,  with  its  shivering  leaves, 
Sweeter  than  sounds  that  e'en  in  moonlit  eves 

Upon  the  seas  have  birth? 


164  TO     A     SEA-SHELL. 

Alas  !  thou  still  wilt  moan — 
Thou'rt  like  the  heart  that  wastes  itself  in  sighs 
E'en  when  amid  bewildering  melodies, 

If  parted  from  its  own. 


TO  MRS.  L . 

Lady,  if  hope's  bright  rav 

Deceive  thee  with  its  beam, 
If  life's  joys  melt  away 

Like  love's  first  witching  dream, 
If  all  earth's  tender  ties 

Have  from  thy  heart  been  riven, 
Look  up  beyond  the  skies — 

To  tenderer  ties  in  heaven. 

If  all  the  buds  of  earth, 

That  promised  early  bloom, 

Have  perished  in  their  birth 
Like  beauty  in  the  tomb, 


166  TO    MRS.    \. 


If  love  hath  seared  thy  heart, 
A  glorious  hope  is  given, 

Which  soothes  affliction's  smart — 
There's  purer  love  in  heaven. 


LINES  WRITTEN  WHILE  GAZING  ON  A  BEAUTIFUL 
LITTLE  GIRL  GATHERING  FLOWERS. 

I  love  to  gaze  on  thy  face,  fair  child, 
For  thou  seemest  too  bright  for  earth ; 

There's  a  music-tone  in  thy  laughter  wild, 
As  it  breaks  from  thy  heart  of  mirth. 


Affection  speaks  in  thy  soft  blue  eye, 
As  its  restless  glances  rove, 

Thy  voice  of  glee  comes  ringing  by — 
Alas !  for  thy  heart  of  love. 


168  LINES,     ETC. 

Ah!  many  a  bright  and  airy  dream 
Hath  over  thy  spirit  passed, 

Like  sunshine  o'er  a  laughing  stream, 
Too  beautiful  to  last. 


I  sigh  to  think  of  the  transient  joy 
That  illumines  thy  gladsome  youth, 

Of  the  guile  and  deceit  that  will  soon  destroy 
Thy  feelings  of  warmth  and  truth. 


Thou'rt  plucking  away  from  their  slender  stems 

The  rose  and  the  lily  fair, 
Their  bright  leaves  glittering  with  dewy  gems, 

To  wreathe  in  thy  golden  hair. 


And  now  thou'rt  crowned,  like  a  fairy  queen, 

With  flowerets  of  many  a  hue, 
Thy  brow  'neath  their  velvet  leaves  is  seen 

Like  a  snow-flake  shining  through. 


LINES,    ETC.  169 

The  rose,  with  its  sofest,  richest  dyes, 

Scarce  rivals  thy  downy  cheek, 
Thy  dewy  lip  with  each  blossom  vies, 

And  thine  eyes  with  the  violets  meek. 


Thou  seemest  to  me  but  a  brighter  flower 

Just  budding  with  beauty  rife, 
And  deeming  the  world  all  a  fairy  bower — 

Ah !  this  is  thy  dream  of  life. 


But  childhood  will  flee,  and  with  riper  years 
Thy  thoughts  will  be  borne  away; 

With  a  bosom  thrilling  with  hopes  and  fears, 
Thou  wilt  move  mid  the  fair  and  gay. 


The  feelings  that  now  in  thy  bosom  sleep, 
Will  burst  from  their  dreamy  thrall ; 

Alas  !  that  love  like  a  blight  should  creep, 
And  wither  those  feelings  all. 

15 


170  LINES,    ETC. 

Ah  !  then  thou  wilt  taste  of  the  cup  of  wo 
If  thy  pure  deep  love  be  spurned, 

For  hearts,  that  like  thine  with  affection  glow, 
Have  seldom  their  love  returned. 


Alas  !  that  one  care  of  earth  should  mar 
The  beauty  that  seems  divine — 

That  thine  eye,  like  a  softly  gleaming  star, 
Should  e'er  through  a  tear-drop  shine. 


THE  DREAMERS. 

Countless  as  the  stars,  whose  numbers 

Mock  us  where  their  brightness  glows, 
Are  the  dreams  that  haunt  our  slumbers 

When  we're  gathered  to  repose ; 
And,  as  each  soft  starry  peeper 

Bursts  forth  in  its  own  bright  beam, 
So  it  is  with  every  sleeper — 

Each  one  hath  a  separate  dream. 

Mother,  on  thy  couch  reclining 

With  thy  pale  cheek  wet  with  tears, 

Sleep  around  thy  heart  is  twining 
Buried  hopes  of  former  years ; 


172  THE     DREAMERS. 

Dream'st  thou  of  each  faded  blossom, 
Folded  once  upon  thy  breast? 

Mourn  not,  for  within  His  bosom 
They  have  found  a  safer  rest. 

Maiden,  whose  warm  cheek  is  glowing 

With  the  spirit  of  thy  dreams, 
Each  wild  bud  of  fancy  blowing 

To  thy  mind  as  real  seems ; 
Honeyed  words  by  sweet  lips  spoken 

Round  thee  have  their  witchery  cast ; 
May  the  charm  remain  unbroken 

When  thy  nightly  dream  is  past. 

Child  of  gladness,  thou  art  sinking 

To  thy  sweet  rest  soft  and  deep, 
For  the  thirsty  flowers  are  drinking 

Every  tear  the  bright  stars  weep ; 
As  the  silvery  light  of  even 

Gathers  round  the  parting  day, 
So  do  gentle  dreams  of  heaven 

Flit  about  thee — dream  away. 


THE     DREAMERS.  173 

Weary  warrior,  lately  grasping 

In  thy  hand  the  flashing  blade, 
In  sweet  dreams  thou'rt  fondly  clasping 

Lovely  forms  now  lowly  laid ; 
Rosy  lips  thine  own  are  pressing, 

Fairy  children  round  thee  play, 
But  with  every  transient,  blessing 

Melts  that  soothing  dream  away. 

Lonely  captive,  sleep  is  flinging 

Round  thee  many  a  witching  spell ; 
Low  sweet  tones  are  round  thee  ringing, 

Tones,  that  lately  breathed  farewell ; 
Clanking  chains  thy  limbs  encumber — 

Hush  !  ye  wild  winds,  peaceful  be — 
Break  not  yet  the  captive's  slumber — 

Rosy  sleep  hath  set  him  free ! 

Mortals,  when  those  dreams  are  over, 
Praise  His  name,  who  round  us  flings 

Visions  bright,  and  bids  us  hover 
'Neath  the  shadow  of  His  wings. 

15* 


174  THE     DREAMERS. 

Soon  that  deep  sleep  will  o'ertake  us, 
Sleep,  that  passeth  not  away, 

Till  the  last  trump  shall  awake  us 
To  one  bright  eternal  day. 


MAY. 

O,  this  is  the  beautiful  month  of  May, 

The  season  of  birds  and  of  flowers ; 
The  young  and  the  lovely  are  out  and  away, 
Mid  the  up-springing  grass  and  the  blossoms,  at  play; 
And  many  a  heart  will  be  happy  to-day, 

In  this  beautiful  region  of  ours. 


Sweet  April,  the  frail,  the  capriciously  bright, 

Hath  passed  like  the  lovely  away, 
Yet  we  mourn  not  her  absence,  for  swift  at  her  flight 
Sprang  forth  her  young  sister,  an  angel  of  light, 
And  fair  as  a  sunbeam  that  dazzles  the  sight, 

Is  beautiful,  beautiful  May. 


176  MAY. 

What  scenes  of  delight,  what  sweet  visions  she  brings 

Of  freshness,  of  gladness,  and  mirth, 
Of  fair  sunny  glades  where  the  buttercup  springs, 
Of  cool  gushing  fountains,  of  rose-tinted  wings, 
Of  birds,  bees,  and  blossoms,  all  beautiful  things, 

Whose  brightness  rejoices  the  earth. 


How  fair  is  the  landscape  !   o'er  hill-top  and  glade, 

What  swift-varying  colors  are  rolled — 
The  shadow  now  sunshine,  the  sunshine  now  shade ; 
Their  light-shifting  hues  for  the  green  earth  have  made 
A  garment  resplendent  with  dew-gems  o'erlaid — 

A  light- woven  tissue  of  gold  ! 


O  yes  !  lovely  May,  the  enchantingly  fair, 

Is  here  with  her  beams  and  her  flowers ; 
Their  rainbow-like  garments  the  blossoms  now  wear, 
And  all  in  their  health-giving  odors  may  share, 
For  the  breath  of  their  sweetness  is  out  on  the  air, 
Those  children  of  sunbeams  and  showers. 


MAY 


177 


The  fragrant  magnolia  in  loveliness  dressed, 

The  lilac's  more  delicate  hue, 
The  violet  half  opening  its  azure-hued  vest, 
Just  kissed  by  a  sunbeam,  its  innocent  guest, 
The  light  floating  cloudlets  like  spirits  at  rest, 

All  pictured  in  motionless  blue — 


These  brighten  the  landscape,  and  softly  unroll 

Their  splendors  by  land  and  by  sea ; 
They  steal  o'er  the  heart  with  a  magic  control, 
That  lightens  the  bosom  and  freshens  the  soul— 
O  !  this  is  the  charm  that  enhances  the  whole, 
And  makes  them  so  lovely  to  me. 


How  sweet,  when  the  month's  in  the  flush  of  its  prime, 

To  hear,  as  we  wander  alone, 
Some  bird's  sudden  song  from  the  sweet-scented  lime, 
And  catch  the  low  gush  of  its  exquisite  chime, 
And  set  it  to  music  and  turn  it  to  rhyme, 

With  a  spirit  as  light  as  its  own. 


178  MAY. 

And  sweet  to  recline  'neath  the  emerald-robed  trees, 

Where  fairy-like  footsteps  have  trod, 
With  the  lull  of  the  waters,  the  hum  of  the  bees, 
Melting  into  the  spirit  delicious  degrees 
Of  exquisite  softness  !  in  moments  like  these, 

I  have  walked  with  the  angels  of  God. 


Sweet  season  of  love,  when  the  fairy-queen  trips 

At  eve  through  the  stsr-lighted  grove — 
What  vows  are  now  breathed  where  the  honey-bee  sips! 
What  cheeks,  whose  bright  beauties  the  roses  eclipse, 
Are  crimsoned  with  blushes  !   what  rose-tinted  lips 

Are  moist  with  the  kisses  of  love ! 


Yet,  loveliest  of  months  !  with  the  praises  I  sing, 

Thy  glories  are  passing  away 
With  the  dew  from  the  blossom,  the  bird  on  the  wing, 
Yet  round  thee  a  garland  poetic  I  fling, 
Sweet  sister  of  April !  young  child  of  the  Spring  ! 

O  beautiful,  beautiful  May  ! 


PULPIT  ELOQUENCE. 

The  day  was  declining— the  breeze  in  its  glee 

Had  left  the  fair  blossoms  to  sing  on  the  sea, 

As  the  sun  in  its  gorgeousness,  radiant  and  still, 

Dropped  down  like  a  gem  from  the  brow  of  the  hill ; 

One  tremulous  star,  in  the  glory  of  June, 

Came  out  with  a  smile  and  sat  down  by  the  moon, 

As  she  graced  her  blue  throne  with  the  pride  of  a  queen, 

The  smiles  of  her  loveliness  gladdening  the  scene. 

The  scene  was  enchanting  !  in  distance  away 
Rolled  the  foam-crested  waves  of  the  Chesapeake  bay, 
While  bathed  in  the  moonlight  the  village  was  seen, 
With  the  church  in  the  distance  that  stood  on  the  green, 


180  PULPIT    ELOQUENCE. 

The  soft- sloping  meadows  lay  brightly  unrolled 
With  their  mantles  of  verdure  and  blossoms  of  gold, 
And  the  earth  in  her  beauty,  forgetting  to  grieve, 
Lay  asleep  in  her  bloom  on  the  bosom  of  eve. 

A  light-hearted  child  I  had  wandered  away 

From  the  spot  where  my  footsteps  had  gambolled  all  day, 

And  free  as  a  bird's  was  the  song  of  my  soul, 

As  I  heard  the  wild  waters  exultingly  roll, 

While,  lightening  my  heart  as  I  sported  along 

With  bursts  of  low  laughter  and  snatches  of  song, 

I  struck  in  the  pathway  half-worn  o'er  the  sod 

By  the  feet  that  went  up  to  the  worship  of  God. 

As  I  traced  its  green  windings,  a  murmur  of  prayer 
With  the  hymn  of  the  worshippers  rose  on  the  air, 
And,  drawn  by  the  links  of  its  sweetness  along, 
I  stood  unobserved  in  the  midst  of  the  throng ; 
For  awhile  my  young  spirit  still  wandered  about 
With  the  birds,  and  the  winds,  that  were  singing  without, 
But  birds,  waves,  and  zephyrs  were  quickly  forgot 
In  one  angel-like  being  that  brightened  the  spot. 


PULPIT    ELOQUENCE.  18J 

In  stature  majestic,  apart  from  the  throng 

He  stood  in  his  beauty,  the  theme  of  my  song  ! 

His  cheek  pale  with  fervor — the  blue  orbs  above 

Lit  up  with  the  splendors  of  youth  and  of  love  ; 

Yet  the  heart-glowing  raptures,  that  beamed  from  those  eyes, 

Seemed  saddened  by  sorrows,  and  chastened  by  sighs, 

As  if  the  young  heart  in  its  bloom  had  grown  cold 

With  its  loves  unrequited,  its  sorrows  untold. 

Such  language  as  his  I  may  never  recall ; 

But  his  theme  was  salvation — salvation  to  all ; 

And  the  souls  of  a  thousand  in  ecstasy  hung 

On  the  manna-like  sweetness  that  dropped  from  his  tongus  ; 

Not  alone  on  the  ear  his  wild  eloquence  stole  ; 

Enforced  by  each  gesture  it  sank  to  the  soul, 

Till  it  seemed  that  an  angel  had  brightened  the  sod 

And  brought  to  each  bosom  a  message  from  God. 

He  spoke  of  the  Saviour — what  pictures  he  drew  ! 
The  scene  of  His  sufferings  rose  clear  on  my  view — 
The  cross — the  rude  cross  where  he  suffered  and  died, 
The  gush  of  bright  crimson  that  flowed  from  His  side, 

16 


182  PULPIT    ELOQUENCE. 

The  cup  of  his  sorrows,  the  wormwood  and  gall, 

The  darkness  that  mantled  the  earth  as  a  pall, 

The  garland  of  thorns,  and  the  demon-like  crews, 

Who  knelt  as  they  scoffed  Him — "  Hail,  King  of  the  Jews  I" 

He  spake,  and  it  seemed  that  his  statue-like  form 
Expanded  and  glowed  as  his  spirit  grew  warm — 
His  tone  so  impassioned,  so  melting  his  air, 
As  touched  with  compassion,  he  ended  in  prayer, 
His  hands  clasped  above  him,  his  blue  orbs  upthrown, 
Still  pleading  for  sins  that  were  never  his  own, 
While  that  mouth,  where  such  sweetness  ineffable  clung, 
Still  spoke,  though  expression  had  died  on  his  tongue. 

O  God  !  what  emotions  the  speaker  awoke  ! 

A  mortal  he  seemed — yet  a  deity  spoke  ; 

A  man — yet  so  far  from  humanity  riven  ! 

On  earth — yet  so  closely  connected  with  heaven ! 

How  oft  in  my  fancy  I've  pictured  him  there, 

As  he  stood  in  that  triumph  of  passion  and  prayer, 

With  his  eyes  closed  in  rapture — their  transient  eclipse 

Made  bright  by  the  smiles  that  illumined  his  lips. 


PULPIT    ELOQUENCE.  183 

There's  a  charm  in  delivery,  a  magical  art, 
That  thrills,  like  a  kiss,  from  the  lip  to  the  heart ; 
'Tis  the  glance — the  expression — the  well-chosen  word, 
By  whose  magic  the  depths  of  the  spirit  are  stirred, 
The  smile — the  mute  gesture — the  soul-startling  pause, 
The  eye's  sweet  expression — that  melts  while  it  awes, 
The  lip's  soft  persuasion — its  musical  tone — 

0  such  was  the  charm  of  that  eloquent  one  ! 

The  time  is  long  past,  yet  how  clearly  defined 
That  bay,  church,  and  village,  float  up  on  my  mind  ! 

1  see  amid  azure  the  moon  in  her  pride, 

With  the  sweet  little  trembler,  that  sat  by  her  side, 
I  hear  the  blue  waves,  as  she  wanders  along, 
Leap  up  in  their  gladness  and  sing  her  a  song, 
And  I  tread  in  the  pathway  half-worn  o'er  the  sod 
By  the  feet  that  went  up  to  the  worship  of  God. 

The  time  is  long  past,  yet  what  visions  I  see  ! 

The  past,  the  dim  past,  is  the  present  to  me ; 

I  am  standing  once  more  mid  that  heart-stricken  throng. 

A  vision  floats  up — 'tis  the  theme  of  my  song — 


184  PULPIT    ELOQUENCE. 

All  glorious  and  bright  as  a  spirit  of  air, 

The  light  like  a  halo  encircling  his  hair — 

As  I  catch  the  same  accents  of  sweetness  and  love, 

He  whispers  of  Jesus — and  points  us  above. 

How  sweet  to  my  heart  is  the  picture  I've  traced  ! 
Its  chain  of  bright  fancies  seemed  almost  effaced, 
Till  memory,  the  fond  one,  that  sits  in  the  soul, 
Took  up  the  frail  links,  and  connected  the  whole : 
As  the  dew  to  the  blossom,  the  bud  to  the  bee, 
As  the  scent  to  the  rose,  are  those  memories  to  me ; 
Round  the  chords  of  my  heart  they  have  tremblingly  clung, 
And  the  echo  it  gives  is  the  song  I  have  sung. 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW. 

Here,  in  this  lonely  bower  where  first  I  won  thee, 
I  come,  beloved,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 

To  gaze,  once  more,  through  struggling  tears  upon  thee, 
And  then  to  bear  my  broken  heart  away ; 

I  dare  not  linger  near  thee  as  a  brother, 

I  feel  my  burning  heart  would  still  be  thine ; 

How  could  I  hope  my  passionate  thoughts  to  smother, 

While  yielding  all  the  sweetness  to  another, 
That  should  be  mine ! 


But  fate  hath  willed  it ;  the  decree  is  spoken ; 

Now  life  may  lengthen  out  its  weary  chain  ; 
For,  reft  of  thee,  its  loveliest  links  are  broken  ; 

May  we  but  clasp  them  all  in  Heaven  again! 

16* 


186  THE     LAST     INTERVIEW. 

Yes,  thou  wilt  there  be  mine ;  in  yon  blue  heaven 
There  are  sweet  meetings  of  the  pure  and  fond ; 
0 !  joys  unspeakable  to  such  are  given, 
When  the  sweet  ties  of  love,  that  here  are  riven, 
Unite  beyond. 


A  glorious  charm  from  Heaven  thou  dost  inherit ; 

The  gift  of  angels  unto  thee  belongs ; 
Then  breathe  thy  love  in  music,  that  thy  spirit 

May  whisper  to  me  through  thine  own  sweet  songs ; 
And  though  my  coming  life  may  soon  resemble 

The  desert-spots  through  which  my  steps  will  flee, 
Though  round  thee  then  wild  worshippers  assemble, 
My  heart  will  triumph  if  thine  own  but  tremble 
Still  true  to  me. 


Yet,  not  when  on  our  bower  the  light  reposes 
In  golden  glory,  wilt  thou  sigh  for  me, 

Not  when  the  young  bee  seeks  the  crimson  roses 
And  the  far  sunbeams  tremble  o'er  the  sea ; 


THE     LAST     INTERVIEW.  187 

But  when  at  eve  the  tender  heart  grows  fonder, 
And  the  full  soul  with  pensive  love  is  fraught, 
Then  with  wet  lids  o'er  these  sweet  paths  thou'lt  wander, 
And,  thrilled  with  love,  upon  my  memory  ponder 
With  tender  thought. 


And  when  at  times  thy  bird-like  voice  entrances 
The  listening  throng  with  some  enchanting  lay, 

If  I  am  near  thee,  let  thy  heavenly  glances 
One  gentle  message  to  my  heart  convey ; 

I  ask  but  this — a  happier  one  has  taken 

From  my  lone  life  the  charm  that  made  it  dear ; 

I  ask  but  this,  and  promise  thee  unshaken 

To  meet  that  look  of  love — but  O !  'twill  awaken 
Such  raptures  here  ! 


And  now  farewell !  farewell !  I  dare  not  lengthen 
These  sweet  sad  moments  out ;  to  gaze  on  thee 

Is  bliss  indeed,  yet  it  but  serves  to  strengthen 
The  love  that  now  amounts  to  agony ; 


188  THE     LAST     INTERVIEW. 

This  is  our  last  farewell,  our  last  fond  meeting ; 
The  world  is  wide,  and  we  must  dwell  apart ; 
My  spirit  gives  thee,  now,  its  last  wild  greeting, 
With  lip  to  lip,  while  pulse  to  pulse  is  beating, 
And  heart  to  heart. 


Farewell !  farewell !  our  dream  of  bliss  is  over, 
All,  save  the  memory  of  our  plighted  love ; 

I  now  must  yield  thee  to  thy  happier  lover, 
Yet,  O  remember,  thou  art  mine  above ! 

'Tis  a  sweet  thought,  and,  when  by  distance  parted, 
'Twill  lie  upon  our  hearts  a  holy  spell ; 

But  the  sad  tears  beneath  thy  lids  have  started, 

And  I — alas  !  we  both  are  broken-hearted — 
Dearest,  farewell ! 


•  •  • 


•  •••••  ;••  t»  •  •  • 

;•  •  •  •••••»•••« 


•    « 


WHEN  SOFT  STARS. 

When  soft  stars  are  peeping 

Through  the  pure  azure  sky, 
And  southern  gales  sweeping 

Their  warm  breathings  by, 
Like  sweet  music  pealing 

Far  o'er  the  blue  sea 
There  come  o'er  me  stealing 

Sweet  memories  of  thee. 

The  bright  rose  when  faded 
Flings  forth  o'er  its  tomb 

Its  velvet  leaves  laded 
With  silent  perfume: 


190  WHEN     SOFT     STARS. 

Thus  round  me  will  hover 
In  grief,  or  in  glee, 

Till  Life's  dream  be  over, 
Sweet  memories  of  thee. 

As  a  sweet  lute,  that  lingers 

In  silence  alone, 
Unswept  by  light  fingers, 

Scarce  murmurs  a  tone, 
My  young  heart  resembled 

That  lute  light  and  free, 
Till  o'er  its  chords  trembled, 

Those  memories  of  thee. 


0!  HAD  WE  ONLY  MET. 

0  !  had  we  only  met 

When  life  and  hope  were  new, 
When  love,  unmingled  with  regret, 
Lay  on  our  hearts  like  dew, 

1  had  not  heaved  a  sigh 

When,  wrapt  in  that  sweet  trance, 
I  raised  my  own  and  met  thine  eye, 
Returning  glance  for  glance. 

O !  do  not  pjize  me  less 
For  yielding  to  the  power, 

The  soft  delicious  dreaminess, 
That  filled  that  twilight  hour; 


392  O!     HAD     WE     ONLY     MET. 

I  thought  its  spells  were  thine, 

Around  my  spirit  wove, 
And  half  forgot  it  was  not  mine 

To  give  thee  love  for  love. 

Love  !     Did  I  call  it  love  ? 

It  will  not  bear  the  name  ! 
A  softer  thought  our  bosoms  move, 

A  tenderer,  milder  flame ! 
I  feel  it  in  the  tone 

That  thrilled  thy  low  reply, 
As  thy  warm  lip,  beside  my  own, 

Responded  sigh  for  sigh. 

I  love  thee  not,  but  O  ! 

If  we  had  met  in  youth, 
When  first  we  dreamed  of  passion  s  glow, 

Its  fervor  and  its  truth, 
Perhaps  it  had  been  mine^ 

With  whispers  soft  and  low, 
To  place  my  little  hand  in  thine, 

And  murmur  vow  for  vow. 


O!     HAD     WE     ONLY     MET.  193 

Dear  one !  for  dear  thou  art, 

Thou  know'st  it  is  not  mine 
To  lift  the  veil  from  this  deep  heart 

Nor  yet  to  gaze  in  thine ; 
But  O  !  were  I  to  speak 

Of  all  I  hope  and  fear, 
Even  thou  wouldst  scarcely  deem  it  weak, 

To  give  me  tear  for  tear. 

17 


TO  AMANDA. 

Sweet  lady,  wilt  thou  think  of  me 

When  Music's  tones  are  round  thee  thrilling 
With  a  soft  gushing  melody, 

Thy  gentle  heart  with  rapture  filling  ? 
O  let  my  voice,  like  that  loved  strain, 

Touch  in  thy  heart  the  chords  of  feeling, 
Like  long-hushed  music,  breathed  again 

By  zephyrs,  o'er  a  wind-harp  stealing. 

Sweet  lady,  wilt  thou  think  of  me 

When  Friendship's  flowers  are  round  thee  wreathing, 
And  Love's  delicious  flattery 

Within  thy  ear  is  softly  breathing  ? 


TO     AMANDA.  195 

O  let  my  friendship  in  the  wreath, 

Though  but  a  bud  amid  the  flowers, 
Its  sweetest  fragrance  round  thee  breathe — 

'Twill  serve  to  soothe  thy  weary  hours. 

Sweet  lady,  wilt  thou  think  of  me  ? 

Ah,  should  we  e'er  by  fate  be  parted, 
Wilt  thou  embalm  my  memory, 

The  memory  of  the  loving-hearted ! 
O  let  our  spirits  then  unite, 

Each  silent  eve,  in  sweet  communion! 
Our  thoughts  will  mingle  in  their  flight, 

And  heaven  will  bless  the  secret  union. 


MUSIC. 

O'er  the  bright  moonlit  sea 

Let  music  swell ; 
Breathe  round  me  melody 

Where'er  I  dwell. 


If  on  the  ocean  deep 

Lonely  I  roam, 
Let  music  round  me  sweep — 

Music  of  home. 


As  the  tones  mingling  float 
With  the  waves  play, 

Soothing  will  be  each  note, 
Melting  away. 


music.  197 

When  mid  the  gladsome  throng, 

Joyous  I  feel, 
Let  a  rich  tide  of  song 

Soft  round  me  steal. 


Or  should  my  pensive  heart 

Feel  sad  and  lone, 
There's  naught  can  heal  eacn  smart 

Like  music's  tone. 


When  I  am  touched  by  death- 
On  some  loved  breast, 

Listening  to  music's  breath, 
Lull  me  to  rest. 


And  when  I'm  borne  along 

To  my  last  sleep, 
Break  forth  in  mournful  song 

Mellow  and  deep. 

17* 


198  music. 

O'er  the  bright  moonlit  sea 
Let  music  swell, 

Breathe  round  me  melody 
Where'er  I  dwell. 


THE  BRIDE. 

A  fringe  of  dewy  leaves, 

Along  the  branches  droop, 
That  overhang  the  cottage-eaves, 

Where  stand  a  bridal  group ; 
In  fair  and  laughing  bands 

The  maidens,  far  and  wide, 
Have  brought  fresh  roses  in  their  hands, 

To  crown  the  fair  young  bride. 

Before  the  man  of  prayer, 

They  slowly  gather  round, 
As  silent  as  the  floating  air, 

That  floats  without  a  sound, 


200  THE     BRIDE. 

As,  with  a  downcast  brow, 
Close  to  her  lover's  side, 

Comes  forth  in  raiment  white  as  snow 
The  young  and  timid  bride 

How  beautiful  she  seems, 

As  o'er  her  soft  brown  hair 
The  sunset  flings  its  golden  gleams, 

And  forms  a  halo  there, 
While  o'er  her  features  play 

The  thoughts  she  cannot  hide, 
Whose  soft  expression  seems  to  say, 

I  am  thy  happy  bride. 

No  cold  vain  look  is  there, 

But  all  is  soft  and  meek; 
Upon  her  virgin  forehead  fair, 

And  o'er  her  dimpled  cheek, 
A  something  soft  and  warm, 

That  round  her  seems  to  glide, 
Involves  as  with  a  heavenly  charm 

The  young  and  spotless  bride. 


THE     BRIDE.  201 

There's  a  whispered  vow  of  love, 

As  side  by  side  they  stand, 
And  the  drawing  of  a  snow-white  glove 

From  a  little  trembling  hand, 
And  the  glitter  of  a  ring, 

And  a  tear  that  none  may  chide — 
These,  these  have  changed  that  girlish  thing, 

And  she  is  now  a  bride. 

No  shadow  dims  her  brow — 

She  feels  without  a  fear 
The  trusting  love  that  all  may  know, 

Who  wed  in  their  own  sphere ; 
And  he,  who  clasps  her  now, 

All  flushed  with  love  and  pride, 
Has  breathed  to  her  his  holiest  vow, 

And  takes  her  for  his  bride. 

Sweet  bride  !  he'll  ne'er  forget, 

When  'neath  thy  father's  cot 
He  met  thee  like  a  violet, 

Within  a  shady  spot. 


202  THE     BRIDE. 

Through  all  the  balmy  air, 

And  the  breathing  world  beside, 

There's  naught  to  him  so  soft  and  fair 
As  thou,  his  blessed  bride. 

Sweet  tie  !  that  links  as  one 

Two  spirits  fond  and  true — 
What,  what  is  all  that  time  has  done, 

Or  all  that  time  can  do  ! 
Recorded  vows  of  love, 

In  heaven  fore'er  abide, 
And  none  shall  part,  save  One  above, 

The  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 


THE  MOUMFUL  HEART. 

My  heart  is  like  a  lonely  bird, 

That  sadly  sings, 
Brooding  upon  its  nest  unheard, 

With  folded  wings. 


For  of  my  thoughts  the  sweetest  part 

Lie  all  untold, 
And  treasured  in  this  mournful  heart 

Like  precious  gold. 


The  fever-dreams  that  haunt  my  soul 

Are  deep  and  strong ; 
For  through  its  deep  recesses  roll 

Such  floods  of  song. 


204  THE    MOURNFUL    HEART. 

I  strive  to  calm,  to  lull  to  rest, 
Each  mournful  strain, 

To  lay  the  phantom  in  my  breast- 
But  ah  1  'tis  vain. 


The  glory  of  the  silent  skies, 

Each  kindling  star, 
The  young  leaves  stirred  with  melodies, 

My  quiet  mar. 


O !  in  my  soul  too  wild  and  strong 

This  gift  hath  grown, 
Bright  spirit  of  immortal  song ! 

Take  back  thine  own. 


I  know  no  sorrows  round  me  cling, 

My  years  are  few ; 
And  yet  my  heart's  the  saddest  thing 

I  ever  knew. 


THE    MOURNFUL    HEART.  205 

For  in  my  thoughts  the  world  doth  share 

But  little  part ; 
A  mournful  thing  it  is  to  bear 

A  mournful  heart. 

18 


THE  PARTED  YEAH. 

The  parted  year  hath  passed  away 

Unto  that  dreamy  land, 
Where  ages  upon  ages  sleep, 

A  mighty,  slumbering  band, 
And,  like  a  blood-stained  conqueror 

Grown  weary  of  renown, 
Hath  yielded  to  the  new-born  year 

His  sceptre  and  his  crown. 

Hushed  now  should  be  each  tone  of  glee, 
Unquaffed  the  sparkling  wine, 

While  Love  and  Grief  bow  hand  in  hand 
At  Memory's  sacred  shrine  ; 


THE    PARTED    YEAR.  207 

E'en  haughty  Pride  should  humbly  bend 

Down  from  his  lofty  steep, 
And  from  the  banquet  laughing  Mirth 

Should  turn  aside  and  weep. 

Unwearied  Thought,  with  solemn  brow, 

Droops  o'er  the  heart's  deep  urn, 
And  traces  on  its  glowing  page, 

The  past  will  ne'er  return. 
While  Fancy  from  her  starry  height 

Returns  with  mournful  eye, 
And,  folding  up  her  rainbow  wing, 

Stands  meekly  pensive  by. 

Hark  !  the  low  winds  are  sighing  now 

O'er  the  departed  year, 
And  gathering  in  dim  autumn  leaves, 

To  strew  upon  His  bier, 
While  the  tall  trees  stand  leafless  round, 

Unstirred  by  summer's  breath, 
Like  mourners  reft  of  every  hope 

Above  the  couch  of  death. 


208  THE    PARTED    YEAR. 

But  now  the  sepulchre  of  years 

Hath  closed  its  portals  o'er 
The  form  of  the  departed  year 

In  silence  as  before ; 
And  the  New- Year  with  stately  tread 

Steals  slowly  o'er  the  earth, 
Robed  in  the  garments  of  his  state, 

A  monarch  from  his  birth. 

Could  we  but  lift  the  mildewed  veil 

O'er  buried  ages  cast, 
And  bring  to  light  the  darkened  things 

That  slumber  with  the  past, 
Sad  mysteries,  undreamed  of  now, 

One  glance  would  then  unfold, 
And  many  other  mournful  things, 

Too  mournful  to  be  told. 

The  cold,  the  dead,  the  beautiful, 
E'en  now  they  silent  pass ; 

Like  floating  shadows,  one  by  one, 
O'er  memory's  faithful  glass ; 


THE    PARTED    YEAR.  209 

And  Hope  and  Love  start  fondly  up 

To  greet  them  as  of  yore, 
But  something  whispers  unto  each — 

Be  still ;  they  are  no  more. 

Time,  ceaseless  Time,  we  know  not  when 

Thy  wanderings  began, 
The  dreamy  past  is  sealed  to  us, 

The  future  none  may  scan ; 
We  only  know  that  round  thy  path 

Dark  ruins  have  been  hurled, 
That  'neath  thy  wing  Destruction  rears 

His  altars  o'er  the  world. 

E'en  Science  from  his  eagle  height 

So  little  can  foresee, 
He  silent  turns  abashed  away 

If  we  but  ask  of  thee ; 
And  if  to  Eloquence  we  turn, 

Mute  is  her  silver  tongue, 
As  if  upon  her  spirit's  lyre 

The  dews  of  death  were  hung. 

18* 


210  THE    PARTED    YEAR. 

Still  onward,  onward  thou  dost  press 

With  low  and  measured  tread, 
Peopling  with  cold  and  lifeless  forms 

The  cities  of  the  dead ; 
Throwing  around  the  young  and  fair 

The  shadow  of  thy  wing, 
And  stealing  from  each  human  heart 

Some  loved  and  cherished  thing. 

Yet  deep,  deep  in  each  thrilling  heart 

One  fount  remaineth  still, 
Which  hoary  Time  nor  icy  Death 

Hath  power  to  touch  or  chill : 
It  is  the  holy  fount  of  Love, 

Whose  waters  hallowed  lie, 
Filled  from  that  everlasting  source, 

The  well-spring  from  on  high. 

We  cannot  stay  thy  footsteps,  Time  I 
Thy  flight  no  hand  can  bind 

Save  His,  whose  foot  is  on  the  sea, 
Whose  voice  is  in  the  wind ; 


THE    PARTED    YEAR.  211 

Yet,  when  the  stars  from  their  bright  spheres 

Like  living  flames  are  hurled, 
Thy  mighty  form  will  sink  beneath 

The  ruins  of  the  world. 


I  NEVER  HAVE  LOVED  THEE. 

I  never  have  loved  thee ;  yet,  strange  though  it  be, 
So  soft  are  the  feelings  I  cherish  for  thee, 
That  the  wildest  of  passions  could  never  impart 
More  joy  to  my  soul,  or  more  bliss  to  my  heart ; 
They  come  o'er  my  breast  in  my  happiest  hours, 
They  come  like  the  south  wind,  that  ruffles  the  flowers — 
A  thrilling  of  softness,  a  thrilling  of  bliss — 
Say,  is  there  no  name  for  a  passion  like  this  ? 

It  cannot  be  friendship,  it  cannot  be  love ; 
Yet  I  know  the  sweet  feeling  descends  from  above ; 
For  it  takes  from  my  bosom  no  portion  of  ease, 
Yet  adds  all  the  raptures,  the  pleasures  of  these ; 


I  NEVER  HAVE  LOVED  THEE.        213 

For  so  soft  the  emotion  my  spirit  has  nursed, 
It  is  warm  as  the  last,  and  more  pure  than  the  first ; 
For  my  heart  when  near  thine  grows  as  soft  as  a  dove, 
Yet  it  cannot 'be  friendship,  it  cannot  be  love. 

I  know  we  must  part,  yet,  united  in  soul, 

Our  thoughts,  like  one  current,  together  will  roll, 

And  0 !  should  my  soul  be  the  first  to  ascend, 

When  an  angel  in  heaven  I'll  plead  for  my  friend ; 

Yet  sometimes  I  think  when  my  young  life  is  o'er, 

And  my  voice  that  hath  thrilled  thee,  can  thrill  thee  no  more, 

That  my  spirit  will  steal  from  its  mansion  of  bliss 

To  lie  on  thy  bosom,  and  guard  thee  in  this. 

Thou  mayst  whisper  farewell,  but  thou  canst  not  depart — 
I  hold  thee  too  close  in  the  folds  of  my  heart ; 
And  that  full  heart  is  deeper  than  aught  else  can  be, 
Unless  'tis  the  feeling  I  cherish  for  thee. 
Thou  canst  not  escape,  for  though  wide  be  thy  bound, 
Fond  memories  like  sentinels  guard  thee  around — 
Sweet  watchers  !  they'll  keep  each  intruder  away, 
And  hold  thee  my  captive  by  night  and  by  day. 


2]4        I  NEVER  HAVE  LOVED  THEE. 

'Twere  almost  too  sweet  for  such  bosoms  as  ours 
To  die  the  calm  death  of  the  innocent  flowers; 
Yet,  ah  !  if  the  angels  will  answer  my  prayers, 
The  close  of  our  lives  will  be  lovely  as  theirs — 
And,  O !  if  the  death-pangs  our  bosoms  must  rend, 
If  they'll  mingle  my  spirit  with  that  of  my  friend, 
I  care  not  how  soon  they  may  sever  earth's  ties, 
For,  though  parted  on  earth,  we'll  be  linked  in  the  skies. 


•   •  J 
»  »    • 


IflEOE    SfflOWHEIBJB. 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  SEEING  AN  INFANT  SLEEPING 
ON  ITS  MOTHER'S  BOSOM. 

It  lay  upon  its  mother's  breast,  a  thing 

Bright  as  a  dew-drop  when  it  first  descends, 
Or  as  the  plumage  of  an  angel's  wing, 

Where  every  tint  of  rainbow  beauty  blends ; 
It  had  soft  violet  eyes,  that,  'neath  each  lid 

Half-closed  upon  them,  like  bright  waters  shone  ; 
While  its  small  dimpled  hands  were  slily  hid 

In  the  warm  bosom  that  it  nestled  on. 

There  was  a  beam  in  that  young  mother's  eye, 
Lit  by  the  feelings  that  she  could  not  speak, 

As  from  her  lips  a  plaintive  lullaby 

Stirred  the  bright  tresses  on  her  infant's  cheek ; 


216  ON    AN     INFANT     SLEEPING,     ETC. 

While  now  and  then,  with  melting  heart,  she  pressed 
Soft  kisses  on  its  red  and  smiling  lips, 

Lips,  sweet  as  rose-buds  in  fresh  beauty  dressed 
Ere  the  young  murmuring  bee  their  honey  sips. 

It  was  a  fragrant  eve,  the  sky  was  full 

Of  burning  stars,  that,  tremulously  clear, 
Shone  on  those  lovely  ones,  while  the  low  lull 

Of  falling  waters  fell  upon  the  ear ; 
And  the  new  moon,  like  a  pure  shell  of  pearl 

Encircled  by  the  blue  waves  of  the  deep, 
Lay  'mid  the  fleecy  clouds,  that  love  to  curl 

Around  the  stars  when  they  their  vigils  keep. 

My  heart  grew  softer,  as  I  gazed  upon 

That  youthful  mother  as  she  soothed  to  rest, 
••  With  a  low  song,  her  loved  and  cherished  one, 

The  bud  of  promise,  on  her  gentle  breast ; 
For  'tis  a  sight,  that  angel-ones  above 

May  stoop  to  gaze  on  from  their  bowers  of  bliss, 
When  Innocence  upon  the  breast  of  love 

Is  cradled,  in  a  sinful  world  like  this. 

3 


THE  PRESENCE  OF  GOD. 

O  Thou,  who  fling'st  so  fair  a  robe 

Of  clouds  around  the  hills  untrod — 
Those  mountain-pillars  of  the  globe, 

Whose  peaks  sustain  thy  throne,  O  God! 
All  glittering  round  the  sunset  skies, 

Their  trembling  folds  are  lightly  furled, 
As  if  to  shade  from  mortal  eyes 

The  glories  of  yon  upper  world ; 
There,  while  the  evening  star  upholds 
In  one  bright  spot  their  purple  folds, 
My  spirit  lifts  its  silent  prayer, 
For  Thou,  the  God  of  love,  art  there. 

19 


218  THE     PRESENCE     OF     GOD. 

The  summer  flowers,  the  fair,  the  sweet, 

Upspringing  freely  from  the  sod, 
In  whose  soft  looks  we  seem  to  meet, 

At  every  step,  Thy  smiles,  O  God  ! 
The  humblest  soul  their  sweetness  shares, 

They  bloom  in  palace-hall,  or  cot — 
Give  me,  O  Lord  !  a  heart  like  theirs, 

Contented  with  my  lowly  lot ! 
Within  their  pure  ambrosial  bells, 
In  odors  sweet  Thy  Spirit  dwells ; 
Their  breath  may  seem  to  scent  the  air— 
Tis  Thine,  O  God  !  for  Thou  art  there. 


List !  from  yon  casement  low  and  dim 

What  sounds  are  these,  that  fill  the  breeze? 
It  is  the  peasant's  evening  hymn 

Arrests  the  fisher  on  the  seas — 
The  old  man  leans  his  silver  hairs 

Upon  his  light  suspended  oar, 
Until  those  soft  delicious  airs 

Have  died  like  ripples  on  the  shore. 


THE     PRESENCE     OF     GOD.  219 

Why  do  his  eyes  in  softness  roll  ? 
What  melts  the  manhood  from  his  soul? 
His  heart  is  filled  with  peace  and  prayer, 
For  Thou,  O  God  !  art  with  him  there. 


The  birds  among  the  summer-blooms 

Pour  forth  to  Thee  their  strains  of  love, 
When,  trembling  on  uplifted  plumes, 

They  leave  the  earth  and  soar  above  ; 
We  hear  their  sweet  familiar  airs 

Where'er  a  sunny  spot  is  found  ; 
How  lovely  is  a  life  like  theirs, 

Diffusing  sweetness  all  around ! 
From  clime  to  clime,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Their  sweetest  anthems  softly  roll, 
Till,  melting  on  the  realms  of  air, 
Thy  still  small  voice  seems  whispering  there. 


The  stars,  those  floating  isles  of  light, 

Round  which  the  clouds  unfurl  their  sails, 


220  THE     PRESENCE     OF     GOD. 

Pure  as  a  woman's  robe  of  white 

That  trembles  round  the  form  it  veils, 
They  touch  the  heart  as  with  a  spell, 

Yet,  set  the  soaring  fancy  free, 
And  O  how  sweet  the  tales  they  tell ! 

They  tell  of  peace,  of  love,  and  Thee  i 
Each  raging  storm  that  wildly  blows, 
Each  balmy  gale  that  lifts  the  rose, 
Sublimely  grand,  or  softly  fair, 
They  speak  of  Thee,  for  Thou  art  there. 


The  spirit  oft  oppressed  with  doubt, 

May  strive  to  cast  Thee  from  its  thought, 
But  who  can  shut  thy  presence  out, 

Thou  mighty  Guest  that  com'st  unsought ! 
In  spite  of  all  our  cold  resolves, 

Whate'er  our  thoughts,  where'er  we  be, 
Still  magnet-like  the  heart  revolves, 

And  points,  all  trembling,  up  to  Thee ; 
We  cannot  shield  a  troubled  breast 
Beneath  the  confines  of  the  blessed, 


I 
THE     PRESENCE     OF     GOD.  221 


Above,  below,  on  earth,  in  air, 
For  Thou  the  living  God  art  there. 


Yet,  far  beyond  the  clouds  outspread, 

Where  soaring  fancy  oft  hath  been, 
There  is  a  land  where  Thou  hast  said 

The  pure  of  heart  shall  enter  in ; 
In  those  far  realms  so  calmly  bright 

How  many  a  loved  and  gentle  one 
Bathes  its  soft  plumes  in  living  light 

That  sparkles  from  Thy  radiant  Throne! 
There  souls,  once  soft  and  sad  as  ours, 
Look  up  and  sing  'mid  fadeless  flowers — 
They  dream  no  more  of  grief  and  care, 
For  Thou,  the  God  of  peace,  art  there. 

19* 


I  KNOW  THEE  NOT. 

I  know  thee  not — I  never  heard  thy  voice, 
Yet,  could  I  choose  a  friend  from  all  mankind, 

Thy  spirit  high  should  be  my  spirit's  choice, 

Thy  heart  should  guide  my  heart — thy  mind,  my  mind 


I  know  not  if  thy  features  be  akin 
To  thy  bright  thoughts — or  if  thy  lashes  fall 

O'er  sparkling  orbs — I  only  sigh  to  win 

The  soul  that  speaks  and  sparkles  through  them  all 


I  know  not  if  thou'rt  blest — I  hope  thou  art ! 

Yet  O !  I  envy  her  to  whom  belongs 
The  priceless  treasure  of  thy  free,  high  heart, 

With  all  its  wild  sweet  thoughts,  and  sweeter  songs  ! 


I    KNOW    THEE    NOT.  223 


I  know  not  if  thou'lt  ever,  ever  press 

My  trembling  hand  in  thine — to  meet  with  thee  ! 
O !  I  should  die  for  very  blessedness, 

So  sweetly  painful  would  that  meeting  be  ! 


I  know  not  if  thou  think'st  of  me  afar, 
Yet  oft,  I  sit  alone  amid  my  flowers, 

And  fix  my  sad  gaze  on  some  still  bright  star, 
And  muse  on  thee  through  long  uncounted  hours  ! 


I  know  thou  dost  not — canst  not  think  of  me  ! 

Alas  !  my  heart  would  leap  with  joy  elate 
Could  I  but  hope  that  I  might  sometimes  be 

A  thought  within  thy  soul — its  spirit-mate  ! 


I  know  not  why  my  heart  should  thus  be  stirred 
By  these  wild  thoughts — thou  dost  not  pine  for  me  ! 

And  yet,  how  oft  /  pine  to  be  a  bird — 
A  star — or  any  thing  that's  loved  by  thee  ! 


224  I    KNOW    THEE    NOT. 

I  know  not  if  I  e'er  shall  list  thy  tone, 

Or  blushing,  thrill  beneath  thy  thrilling  touch-, 

Thy  songs,  thy  fame,  are  all  my  neart  hath  known, 
And  knowing  this  alone — it  knows  too  much  I 


THOU  CANST  NOT  FORGET  ME. 

Thou  canst  not  forget  me,  for  memory  will  fling 

Her  light  o'er  oblivion's  dark  sea ; 
And  wherever  thou  roamest,  a  something  will  cling 

To  thy  bosom,  that  whispers  of  me  ; 
Though  the  chords  of  thy  spirit  I  now  may  not  sweep, 

Of  my  touch  they'll  retain  a  soft  thrill, 
Like  the  low,  under-tone  of  the  mournful-voiced  deep, 

When  the  wind  that  has  swept  it  is  still. 

The  love  that  is  kept  in  the  beauty  of  trust, 
Cannot  pass  like  the  foam  from  the  seas, 

Or  a  mark  that  the  finger  hath  traced  in  the  dust, 
When  'tis  swept  by  the  breath  of  the  breeze  ; 


226  THOU    CANST    NOT    FORGET    ME. 

They  tell  me,  my  love,  thou  wilt  calmly  resign, 
Yet  I  know,  e'en  while  listening  to  them, 

Thou  wilt  sigh  for  the  heart  that  was  linked  unto  thine 
As  a  rose-bud  is  linked  to  its  stem. 

Thou  canst  not  forget  me,  too  long  thou  hast  flung 

Thy  spirit's  soft  pinion  o'er  mine  ; 
Too  deep  was  the  promise  that  round  my  lips  clung, 

As  they  softly  responded  to  thine : 
In  the  hush  of  the  twilight,  beneath  the  blue  skies 

My  presence  will  mantle  thy  soul, 
And  a  feeling  of  softness  will  rush  to  thine  eyes, 

Too  deep  for  thy  manhood's  control. 

Thou  mayst  roam  to  thine  own  isle  of  beauty  and  fame, 

Far,  far  from  the  land  of  the  free ; 
Yet,  each  wind  that. floats  round  thee  will  murmur  the  name 

That  is  softer  than  music  to  thee ; 
And  when  round  thee  darkly  misfortunes  shall  crowd, 

Thou'lt  think,  like  the  beautiful  form 
Of  the  rainbow,  that  arches  the  thick  tempest-cloud, 

My  love  would  have  brightened  the  storm. 


THOU    CANST    NOT    FORGET    ME.  227 

Thou  canst  not  forget  me — the  passion,  that  dwelt 

In  the  depth  of  thy  soul,  could  not  die, 
With  the  memory  of  all  thou  hast  murmured  and  felt, 

In  thy  bosom  'twill  slumbering  lie ; 
Thou  mayst  turn  to  another,  and  wish  to  forget, 

But  the  wish  will  not  bring  thee  repose, 
For  ah  !  thou  wilt  find  that  the  thorn  of  regret 

Will  be  linked  with  the  sweets  of  the  rose. 


HOPELESS  LOVE. 

The  trembling  waves  beneath  the,  moonbeams  quiver 

Reflecting  back  the  blue,  unclouded  skies ; 
The  stars  look  down  upon  the  still  bright  river, 

And  smile  to  see  themselves  in  paradise  ; 
Sweet  songs  are  heard  to  gush  in  joyous  bosoms, 

That  lightly  throb  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
And  glossy  plumes  float  in  amid  the  blossoms, 

And  all  around  are  happy — all  but  me  ! 

And  yet,  I  come  beneath  the  light,  that  trembles 
O'er  these  dim  paths,  with  listless  steps  to  roam, 

For  here  my  bursting  heart  no  more  dissembles, 
My  sad  lips  quiver,  and  the  tear-drops  come  ; 


HOPELESS     LOVE.  229 

I  come  once  more  to  list  the  low-voiced  turtle, 
To  watch  the  dreamy  waters  as  they  flow, 

And  lay  me  down  beneath  the  fragrant  myrtle, 

That  drops  its  blossoms  when  the  west  winds  blow. 

0  !  there  is  one,  on  whose  sweet  face  I  ponder, 

One  angel-being  'mid  the  beauteous  band, 
Who  in  the  evening's  hush  comes  out  to  wander 

Amid  the  dark-eyed  daughters  of  the  land  ! 
Her  step  is  lightest  where  each  light  foot  presses, 

Her  song  is  sweetest  'mid  their  songs  of  glee, 
Smiles  light  her  lips,  and  rose-buds,  'mid  her  tresses, 

Look  lightly  up  their  dark  redundancy. 

Youth,  wealth,  and  fame  are  mine — all,  that  entrances 
The  youthful  heart,  on  me  their  charms  confer ; 

Sweet  lips  smile  on  me  too,  and  melting  glances 
Flash  up  to  mine — but  not  a  glance  from  her  ! 

O  !  I  would  give  youth,  beauty,  fame,  and  splendor, 
My  all  of  bliss — my  every  hope  resign, 

To  wake  in  that  young  heart  one  feeling  tender — 

To  clasp  that  little  hand,  and  call  it  mine  ! 

20 


230  HOPELESS     LOVE. 

In  this  sweet  solitude  the  sunny  weather 

Hath  called  to  life  light  shapes,  and  fairy-elves, 
The  rose-buds  lay  their  crimson  lips  together 

And  the  green  leaves  are  whispering  to  themselves; 
The  clear,  faint  starlight  on  the  blue  wave  flushes, 

And,  filled  with  odors  sweet,  the  south  wind  blows, 
The  purple  clusters  load  the  lilac-bushes, 

And  fragrant  blossoms  fringe  the  apple-boughs. 

Yet,  I  am  sick  with  love  and  melancholy, 

My  locks  are  heavy  with  the  dropping  dew, 
Low  murmurs  haunt  me — murmurs  soft  and  holy, 

And  O,  my  lips  keep  murmuring,  murmuring  too  ! 
I  hate  the  beauty  of  these  calm,  sweet,  bowers, 

The  bird's  wild  music,  and  the  fountain's  fall ; 
O  !  I  am  sick  in  this  lone  land  of  flowers, 

My  soul  is  weary — weary  of  them  all  1 

Yet  had  I  that  sweet  face,  on  which  I  ponder, 
To  bloom  for  me  within  this  Eden-home, 

That  lip  to  sweetly  murmur  when  I  wander, 
That  cheek  to  softly  dimple  when  I  come, 


HOPELESS    LOVE.  231 

How  sweet  would  glide  my  days  in  these  lone  bowers, 
Far  from  the  world  and  all  its  heartless  throngs, 

Her  fairy  feet  should  only  tread  on  flowers, 
I'd  make  her  home  melodious  with  my  songs  ! 

Ah  me  !  such  blissful  hopes  once  filled  my  bosom, 

And  dreams  of  fame  could  then  my  heart  enthrall, 
And  joy  and  bliss  around  me  seemed  to  blossom, 

But  O  !  these  blissful  hopes  are  blighted — all ! 
No  smiling  angel  decks  these  Eden-bowers, 

No  springing  footstep  echoes  mine  in  glee — 
O  !  I  am  weary  in  this  land  of  flowers  ! 

1  sigh — I  sigh  amid  them  all — ah  me  ! 


THE  BEREAVED. 

The  moon  within  our  casement  beams, 
Our  blue-eyed  babe  hath  dropped  to  sleep, 

And  I  have  left  it  to  its  dreams, 
Amid  the  shadows  deep, 

To  muse  beside  the  silver  tide, 

Whose  waves  are  rippling  at  thy  side. 


It  is  a  still  and  lovely  spot, 

Where  they  have  laid  thee  down  to  rest, 
The  white  rose  and  forget-me-not 

Bloom  sweetly  o'er  thy  breast, 
And  birds,  and  streams  with  liquid  lull, 
Have  made  the  stillness  beautiful. 


THE     BEREAVED.  233 

And  softly  through  the  forest-bars 

Light,  lovely  shapes,  on  glossy  plumes, 

Float  ever  in,  like  winged  stars, 
Amid  the  purpling  glooms ; 

Their  sweet  songs,  borne  from  tree  to  tree, 

Thrill  the  light  leaves  with  melody. 


Alas  !  the  very  path  I  trace, 

In  happier  hours,  thy  footsteps  made : 
This  spot  was  once  thy  resting-place, 

Within  the  silent  shade ; 
Thy  white  hand  trained  the  fragrant  bough 
That  drops  its  blossoms  o'er  me  now ; 


'Twas  here  at  eve  we  used  to  rove, 

'Twas  here  I  breathed  my  whispered  vows, 

And  sealed  them  on  thy  lips,  my  love  ! 
Beneath  the  apple-boughs. 

Our  hearts  had  melted  into  one, 

But  Death  undid  what  Love  had  done. 

20* 


234  THE     BEREAVED. 

Alas  !  too  deep  a  weight  of  thought 

Had  filled  thy  heart  in  youth's  sweet  hour 

It  seemed  with  love  and  bliss  o'erfraught, 
A  fleeting  passion-flower, 

Unfolding  'neath  a  southern  sky 

To  blossom  soon,  and  soon  to  die. 


Yet,  in  those  calm  and  blooming  bowers 
I  seem  to  feel  thy  presence  still, 

Thy  breath  seems  floating  o'er  the  flowers, 
Thy  whisper  on  the  hill ; 

The  clear,  faint  starlight,  and  the  sea, 

Are  whispering  to  my  heart  of  thee. 


No  more  thy  smiles  my  heart  rejoice, 
Yet  still  I  start  to  meet  thine  eye, 

And  call  upon  the  low,  sweet  voice, 
That  gives  me  no  reply — 

And  list  within  my  silent  door 

For  the  light  feet  that  come  no  more. 


TO  LUCY  DUKING  HEE  ABSENCE. 

The  dew  is  on  the  blossoms,  and  the  young  moon  on  -the  sea, 
It  is  the  twilight  hour — the  hour  for  you  and  me — 
The  time  when  memory  wanders  across  life's  dreamy  track, 
When  the  past  floats  up  before  us,  and  the  lost  come  stealing 

back  ; 
'And  while  along  the  still  shore  my  lonely  footsteps  rove, 
With  the  deep  blue  far  beneath  me,  and  the  pale  blue  up  above, 
And  with  their  trembling  footsteps  the  faint  stars  tread  the  sea, 
I  think  upon  you,  Lucy— do  you  ever  think  of  me  ? 

O  Lucy  !  in  this  sweet  hour,  when  the  stars  and  waves  have  met. 
And  the  full  heart  most  remembers  all  it  wishes  to  forget, 
When  the  deep  hush  of  the  twilight  seems  such  a  holy  time, 
That  to  smile  were  almost  sinful,  and  to  whisper  were  a  crime, 


236      TO  LUCY  DURING  HER  ABSENCE. 

'Tis  sweet  along  these  dim  paths  with  lonely  steps  to  glide, 
For  the  moon  is  in  the  far  blue,  and  the  breeze  is  at  my  side  ; 
But  yet  my  heart  is  heavy,  and  my  voice  hath  lost  its  glee, 
I  am  sighing  for  you,  Lucy — do  you  ever  sigh  for  me  ? 

Dear  Lucy  !  in  your  absence,  where'er  your  wanderings  tend, 
You  must  keep  within  your  pure  heart  a  sweet  thought  for  your 

friend, 
Till  you  sit  once  more  in  beauty  within  your  father's  hall, 
With  a  soft  smile  on  your  young  lip,  and  a  pleasant  word  for 

all. 
Alas  !  the  breeze  is  balmy,  and  the  hushed  wave  deeply  blue, 
And  flowers  are  in  my  pathway,  but  no  light-hearted  Lu  ! 

0  the  summer-months  without  you  such  a  lonely  time  will  be  ? 

1  am  sighing  for  you,  Lucy — do  you  ever  sigh  for  me  ? 


ON  ENTERING  THE  MAMMOTH  CAVE. 

Hush  !  for  my  heart-blood  curdles  as  we  enter 
To  glide  in  gloom  these  shadowy  realms  about ; 

Oh  !  what  a  scene  the  round  globe  to  its  centre, 
To  form  this  awful  cave,  seems  hollowed  out ! 

Yet  pause — no  mystic  word  hath  yet  been  spoken 
To  win  us  entrance  to  this  awful  sphere — 

A  whispered  prayer  must  be  our  watchword  token, 

And  peace — like  that  around  us — peace  unbroken 
The  passport  here. 


And  now  farewell,  ye  birds  and  blossoms  tender, 
Ye  glistening  leaves  by  morning  dews  impearled, 

And  you,  ye  beams  that  light  with  softened  splendor 
The  glimmering  glories  of  yon  outer  world  ! 


238  ON    ENTERING    THE    MAMMOTH    CAVE. 

While  thus  we  pause  these  silent  arches  under, 
To  you  and  yours  a  wild  farewell  we  wave, 
For  oh  !  perhaps  this  awful  spot  may  sunder 
Our  hearts  from  all  we  love — this  world  of  wonder 
May  be  our  grave. 


And  yet  farewell  !  the  faintly  flickering  torches 
Light  our  lone  footsteps  o'er  the  silent  sod ; 

And  now  all  hail,  ye  everlasting  arches, 
Ye  dark  dominions  of  an  unseen  God  ! 

Who  would  not  for  this  sight  the  bliss  surrender 
Of  all  the  beauties  of  yon  sunny  sphere, 

And  break  the  sweetest  ties,  however  tender, 

To  be  the  witness  of  the  silent  splendor 
That  greets  us  here  ! 


Ye  glittering  caves,  ye  high  o'erhanging  arches, 
A  pilgrim-band  we  glide  amid  your  gloom, 

With  breathless  lips  and  high  uplifted  torches, 
All  fancifully  decked  in  cave-costume  ; 


ON    ENTERING    THE    MAMMOTH    CAVE.  239 

Far  from  the  day's  glad  beams,  and  songs,  and  flowers, 

We've  come  with  spell-touched  hearts^  ye  countless  caves, 
To  glide  enchanted,  for  a  few  brief  hours, 
Through  the  calm  beauty  of  your  awful  bowers 
And  o'er  your  waves  ! 


Beautiful  cave  !  that  all  my  soul  entrances, 
Known  as  the  Wonder  of  the  West  so  long, 

Oh  'twere  a  fate  beyond  my  wildest  fancies, 
Could  I  but  shrine  you  now,  as  such  in  song ! 

But  'tis  in  vain — the  untaught  child  of  Nature, 
I  cannot  vent  the  thoughts  that  through  me  flow, 

Yet  none  the  less  is  graved  thine  every  feature 

Upon  the  wild  imaginative  creature 
That  hails  you  now  ! 


Palace  of  Nature  !  with  a  poet's  fancies 

I've  ofttimes  pictured  thee  in  dreams  of  bliss, 

And  glorious  scenes  were  given  to  my  glances, 
But  never  gazed  I  on  a  scene  like  this  ! 


240  ON    ENTERING    THE    MAMMOTH    CAVE. 

Compared  with  thine,  what  are  the  awful  wonders 

Of  the  deep,  fathomless,  unbounded  sea  ? 
Or  the  storm-cloud  whose  lance  of  lightning  sunders 
The  solid  oak  ? — or  even  thine  awful  thunders, 
Niagara ! 


Hark !  hear  ye  not  those  echoes  ringing  after 
Our  gliding  steps — my  spirit  faints  with  fear — 

Those  mocking  tones,  like  subterranean  laughter — 
Or  does  the  brain  grow  wild  with  wandering  here ! 

There  may  be  spectres  wild  and  forms  appalling 
Our  wandering  eyes,  where'er  we  rove,  to  greet — 

Methinks  I  hear  their  low  sad  voices  calling 

Upon  us  now,  and  far  away  the  falling 
Of  phantom  feet. 


The  glittering  dome,  the  arch,  the  towering  column, 
Are  sights  that  greet  us  now  on  every  hand, 

And  all  so  wild — so  strange — so  sweetly  solemn — 
So  like  one's  fancies  formed  of  fairy  land  ! 


ON    ENTERING    THE    MAMMOTH    CAVE.  241 

And  these  then  are  your  works,  mysterious  powers  ! 

Your  spells  are  o'er,  around  us,  and  beneath, 
These  opening  aisles,  these  crystal  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  glittering  grots  and  high-arched  beauteous  bowers, 
As  still  as  death ! 


But  yet  lead  on  !  perhaps  than  this  fair  vision, 
Some  lovelier  yet  in  darkling  distance  lies — 

Some  cave  of  beauty,  like  those  realms  elysian 
That  ofttimes  open  on  poetic  eyes  ! 

Some  spot,  where  led  by  fancy's  sweet  assistance 
Our  wandering  feet  o'er  silvery  sands  may  stray, 

Where  prattling  waters  urge  with  soft  resistance 

Their  wavelets  on,  till  lost  in  airy  distance, 
And  far  away  ! 


Oft  the  lone  Indian  o'er  these  low-toned  waters 
Has  bent  perhaps  his  swarthy  brow  to  lave  ! 

It  seems  the  requiem  of  their  dark-eyed  daughters— 
Those  sweet  wild  notes  that  wander  o'er  the  wave ! 

21 


242  ON    ENTERING    THE    MAMMOTH    CAVE. 

Hast  thou  no  relic  of  their  ancient  glory, 

No  legend,  lonely  cavern  !  linked  with  thine  ? 
No  tale  of  love — no  wild  romantic  story 
Of  some  warm  heart  whose  dreams  were  transitory 
And  sweet  as  mine  ? 


It  must  be  so  !  the  thought  your  spell  enhances — 
Yet  why  pursue  this  wild,  romantic  dream? 

The  heart,  afloat  upon  its  fluttering  fancies, 
Would  lose  itself  in  the  bewildering  theme  ! 

And  yet,  ye  waters  !  still  I  list  your  surging, 
And  ever  and  anon  I  seem  to  view, 

In  fancy's  eye,  some  Indian  maid  emerging 

Through  the  deep  gloom,  and  o'er  your  waters  urging 
Her  light  canoe. 


Oh  silent  cave  !  amid  the  elevation 

Of  lofty  thought  could  I  abide  with  thee, 

My  soul's  sad  shrine,  my  heart's  lone  habitation, 
Forever  and  forever  thou  shouldst  be  ! 


ON    ENTERING    THE    MAMMOTH    CAVE.  243 

Here  into  song  my  every  thought  I'd  render, 

And  thou — and  thou  alone — shouldst  be  my  theme, 
Far  from  the  weary  world's  delusive  splendor, 
Would  not  my  lonely  life  be  all  one  tender 
Delicious  dream  ? 


Yes  !  though  no  other  form  save  mine  might  hover 

In  these  lone  halls,  no  other  whisper  roll 
Along  those  airy  domes  that  arch  me  over 

Save  gentle  Echo's,  sister  of  my  soul  ! 
Yet,  'neath  these  domes  whose  spell  of  beauty  weighs  me, 

My  heart  would  evermore  in  bliss  abide — 
No  sorrow  to  depress,  no  hope  to  raise  me, 
Here  would  I  ever  dwell — with  none  to  praise  me, 
And  none  to  chide  ! 


Region  of  caves  and  streams  !  and  must  I  sever 
My  spirit  from  your  spell  ?   'Twere  bliss  to  stray 

The  happy  rover  of  your  realms  forever, 
And  yet,  farewell  forever  and  for  aye  ! 


244         ON    ENTERING    THE    MAMMOTH    CAVE. 

I  leave  you  now,  yet  many  a  sparkling  token 

Within  your  cool  recesses  I  have  sought 
To  treasure  up  with  fancies  still  unspoken — 
Till  from  these  quivering  heart-strings,  Death  hath  broken 
The  thread  of  thought ! 


SUDDEN  DEATH. 

How  still  she  lies  upon  her  pillow  sinking, 
With  her  white  folded  hands  upon  her  breast 

The  rosy  morn  disturbs  not  her  sweet  thinking- 
And  fails  the  lark  to  rouse  her  from  her  rest. 

She  sleeps  as  if  her  soul  exhaled  in  sighs — 

As  if  her  lover's  kisses  closed  her  eyes  ! 


How  still  she  lies  !  But  list — through  her  hushed  chamber 
A  sudden  sound  of  childish  glee  hath  spread ; 

While  little  forms  with  laughing  voices  clamber 
O'er  her  soft  bosom,  and  about  her  bed. 

They  toss  their  golden  locks  before  her  eyes, 

Crying,  in  sportive  tones — "  Rise,  sister,  rise  ! 
21* 


246  SUDDEN     DEATH. 

"  Oh,  rise  !  We've  been  away  among  the  flowers, 
And  had  such  gambols  with  the  bird  and  bee  ! 

The  young  things  thought  to  give  us  chase  for  hours, 
But  were  not  lighter  on  the  wing  than  we. 

And  see  !  we  stole  their  buds  and  flowers  in  play- 

Oh,  rise,  sweet  sister — rise  and  come  away !" 


Alas,  ye  glad  young  creatures  !  o'er  that  fair 
And  polished  cheek  your  kisses  fall  in  vain. 

No  sister's  voice  can  wake  the  stillness  there, 
Nor  bring  the  red-rose  to  that  cheek  again  ! 

Nor  wake  those  smiles — nor  bow  that  lovely  head 

To  meet  your  soft  embraces — she  is  dead ! 


Away !  bear  back  your  buds  and  blossoms  fair — 
Break  not  the  stillness  of  that  awful  room  ! 

Your  cheerful  tones  awake  no  echo  there — 

Would  that  your  glee  could  gladden  up  its  gloom. 

But  'tis  in  vain — Death  shadows  o'er  the  spot — 

Bear  back  your  buds  and  flowers — she  heeds  them  not ! 


SUDDEN     DEATH.  247 

But  for  the  spell  that  now  her  fair  form  cumbers, 
Soon  had  she  flown  your  fairy  forms  to  meet ; 

But  Death  o'ertook  her  in  her  rosy  slumbers, 

And  hushed  her  answering  voice — and  chained  her  feet ! 

And  now  with  moveless  lips  and  closed  eyes, 

Pale  on  her  couch  your  darling  sister  lies. 


Alas  !  that  lovely  sister  !     Yesternight 

She  moved  the  fairest  'mid  the  festive  throng, 

With  step  so  joyous,  and  with  voice  so  light, 
That  Music's  self  seemed  discord  to  its  song. 

Fair,  and  exulting  in  youth's  fleeting  breath, 

How  long  to  her  seemed  life — how  distant  death ! 


And  when  upon  her  pillow  soft  and  still, 

With  her  blue  eye  fixed  on  the  moon's  pale  beams, 

Guileless  of  heart,  and  thinking  of  no  ill, 
And  gliding  off,  so  sweetly,  to  her  dreams — 

Death's  awful  shadow  o'er  her  slumber  passed ! 

But  life  to  her  was  lovely  to  the  last. 


248  SUDDEN     DEATH. 

Translated  thus  to  lovelier  worlds  than  ours, 
Without  a  pang,  she  knows  not  of  decay, 
Nor  how  she  wandered  to  those  blissful  bowers, 

Nor  what  it  was  that  stole  her  breath  away. 
Nor  feels  her  bark,  safe  moored  in  Heaven  at  last- 
To  reach  that  Heaven — the  dreary  gulf  it  passed ! 


Briel  was  her  sojourn  in  youth's  beauteous  bowers — 
She  floated  calm  adown  life's  glittering  tide, 

Bright  as  the  beams,  and  fragrant  as  the  floweis 
Amid  whose  glowing  hues  she  lived  and  died — 

Ere  fickle  friendship  filled  her  heart  with  tears, 

Or  passion  marred  the  peace  of  her  young  years. 


And  she  is  dead  !     Death's  cold  and  withering  touch 
Hath  quenched  in  that  young  breast  life's  perfumed  flame. 

She  whom  her  fair  young  sisters  loved  so  much ! 
She  whom  her  parents  dear  delight  to  name ! 

Frail  is  the  tenure  of  our  mortal  breath — 

Yea,  "  in  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death !" 


I  SAW  THEE  BUT  A  MOMENT. 

I  saw  thee  but  a  moment — thou  sad  and  lovely  one  ! 
I  saw  thee  but  a  moment — yet  my  heart  was  then  undone  ! 
Thou  didst  dawn  upon  my  spirit,  in  all  thy  bloom  and  truth, 
A  passing  vision  given  to  my  warm  and  yearning  youth. 

I  saw  thee  but  a  moment — 'twas  'mid  the  festive  throng. 

Some  happy  youths  were  round  thee — they  had  pleaded  for  a 
song — 

The  last  guests  were  departing — and  I,  too,  had  said  "good 
night," 

When  thy  gush  of  song  o'ertook  me — and  chained  me  with  de- 
light ! 


250  I     SAW     THEE     BUT     A     MOMENT. 

I  turned — and  oh  that  vision  ! — thy  beauty,  fair  unknown  ! 
Still  thrills  me  with  a  power  that  I  almost  dread  to  own — 
There  were  brighter  ones  around  thee  in  that  gay  and  brilliant 

hall, 
But  the  sweetest  face  among  them,  was  the  saddest  face  of  all ! 

I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me  in  the  tumult  of  that  hour — 
There  were  burning  thoughts  within  me — of  passion  and  of 

power ! 
How  sweetly  throbbed  my  bosom,  as  I  listened  to  thy  lay. 
But  my  peace  of  heart  was  over,  ere  the  last  note  died  away  ! 

I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me  'mid  that  hushed  and  listening 

band, 
As  I  strove  to  nerve  the  spirit  that  thy  music  had  unmanned. 
I  heard  some  murmured  praises — and  thy  low  and  sweet  replies — 
While  harp — and  throng — and  singer — all  swam  before  my  eyes  ! 

The  siren-song  was  ended — and  I  paused  to  ask  thy  name — 
At  the  memory  of  that  moment,  even  now,  I  blush  for  shame ; 
But  the  wild  blood  of  my  boyhood  throbbed  at  my  bosom's  core — 
I  heard  that  thou  wert  wedded—  and  fainted  on  the  floor  ! 


I     SAW     THEE     BUT     A     MOMENT.  251 

The  time  is  past  and  over — and  my  dreams  have  changed  since 

then — 
I  have  learned  to  mask  my  spirit,  in  my  intercourse  with  men  ! 
But  the  feelings  of  that  moment — unconscious  of  control — 
Still  send  their  glowing  current  like  lava  through  my  soul ! 

The  time  is  past  and  over — and  though  madness  it  may  be — 
There  are  moments  still,  lost  beauty  !  when  I  pause  to  think  of 

thee  ! 
When  I  seem  to  feel  thy  glances — as  they  thrilled  my  heart  of 

yore — 
But  the  memory  hath  unmanned  me — I  must  think  of  thee  no 

more ! 


THE  EVENING  SKIES. 

Soft  skies  !  amid  your  halls  to-night 

How  brightly  beams  each  starry  sphere  ! 
Beneath  your  softly  mellowed  light 

The  loveliest  scenes  grow  lovelier ! 
How  high,  how  great,  the  glorious  Power 

That  bade  these  silvery  dew-drops  fall ; 
That  touched  with  bloom  the  folded  flower, 

And  bent  the  blue  sky  over  all. 

I  love  to  glide  in  these  still  hours 

With  heart,  and  thought,  and  fancy  free, 

When  naught  but  stars,  and  waves,  and  flowers, 
May  give  me  their  sweet  company  ! 


THE     EVENING     SKIES.  253 

When  far  below  the  waves  outspread 

Glide  softly  on  with  liquid  hue ; 
When  winds  are  low — and  skies  o'erhead 

Are  beaming  beautifully  blue. 

Oh,  what  a  heavenly  hour  is  this ! 

The  green  earth  seems  an  Eden-home, — 
And  yet  I  pine  amid  my  bliss, 

For  purer  blisses  yet  to  come ! 
How  can  my  spirit  gaze  aloft 

Upon  your  deep  delicious  blue, 
And  float  to  those  far  realms  so  oft, 

And  never  sigh  to  flutter  through  1 

And  yet  this  spot,  so  still,  so  lone, 

Seems  formed  to  suit  my  mournful  mood, 

The  far  blue  heavens  seem  all  my  own, 
And  all  this  lovely  solitude ! 

A  voice  seems  whispering  on  the  hill 
Soft  as  my  own — and  on  the  sea 

A  living  spirit  seems  to  thrill 

And  throb  with  mine  delicioushy  ! 
22 


254  THE     EVENING     SKIES. 

Yet,  though  my  thoughts  from  care  seem  freed, 

And  a  soft  joy  pervades  my  breast, 
That  makes  me  almost  feel  indeed 

That  hearts  on  earth  are  sometimes  blessed ! 
There  is  a  spell  in  those  hushed  skies — 

A  something  felt  in  this  lone  spot, 
That  makes  my  very  soul  arise 

With  longings  for — it  knows  not  what ! 

Beneath  such  skies  I  sometimes  doubt 

My  heart  can  e'er  have  dreamed  of  sin — 
The  world  seems  all  so  calm  without, 

And  all  my  thoughts  so  pure  within ! 
Such  dreams  play  o'er  my  folded  lid  ! 

Such  heavenly  visions  greet  my  view  ! 
I  almost  seem  to  glide  amid 

The  angel-bands,  an  angel  too  ! 


THE  OLD  MAID. 

Why  sits  she  thus  in  solitude  ?    her  heart 

Seems  melting  in  her  eye's  delicious  blue, — 
And  as  it  heaves,  her  ripe  lips  lie  apart 

As  if  to  let  its  heavy  throbbings  through ; 
In  her  dark  eye  a  depth  of  softness  swells, 

Deeper  than  that  her  careless  girlhood  wore  ; 
And  her  cheek  crimsons  with  the  hue  that  tells 

The  rich,  fair  fruit  is  ripened  to  the  core. 

It  is  her  thirtieth  birthday  !  with  a  sigh 

Her  soul  hath  turned  from  youth's  luxuriant  bowers, 
And  her  heart  taken  up  the  last  sweet  tie 

That  measured  out  its  links  of  golden  hours  ! 


256  THE    OLD    MAID. 

She  feels  her  inmost  soul  within  her  stir 

With  thoughts  too  wild  and  passionate  to  speak ; 

Yet  her  full  heart — its  own  interpreter — 
Translates  itself  in  silence  on  her  cheek 

Joy's  opening  buds,  affection's  glowing  flowers, 

Once  lightly  sprang  within  her  beaming  track; 
Oh,  life  was  beautiful  in  those  lost  hours  ! 

And  yet  she  does  not  wish  to  wander  back ! 
No  !  she  but  loves  in  loneliness  to  think 

On  pleasures  past,  though  never  more  to  be : 
Hope  links  her  to  the  future — but  the  link 

That  binds  her  to  the  past  is  memory  ! 

From  her  lone  path  she  never  turns  aside, 

Though  passionate  worshippers  before  her  fall ; 
Like  some  pure  planet  in  her  lonely  pride, 

She  seems  to  soar  and  beam  above  them  all ! 
Not  that  her  heart  is  cold  !  emotions  new 

And  fresh  as  flowers,  are  with  her  heart-strings  knit 
And  sweetly  mournful  pleasures  wander  through 

Her  virgin  soul,  and  softly  ruffle  it. 


THE    OLD    MAID.  257 

For  she  hath  lived  with  heart  and  soul  alive 

To  all  that  makes  life  beautiful  and  fair ; 
Sweet  thoughts,  like  honey-bees,  have  made  their  hive 

Of  her  soft  bosom-cell,  and  cluster  there  ; 
Yet  life  is  not  to  her  what  it  hath  been, — 

Her  soul  hath  learned  to  look  beyond  its  gloss — 
And  now  she  hovers  like  a  star  between 

Her  deeds  of  love — her  Saviour  on  the  Cross  ! 

Beneath  the  cares  of  earth  she  does  not  bow, 

Though  she  hath  ofttimes  drained  its  bitter  cup, 
But  ever  wanders  on  with  heavenward  brow, 

And  eyes  whose  lovely  lids  are  lifted  up  ! 
She  feels  that  in  that  lovelier,  happier  sphere, 

Her  bosom  yet  will,  bird-like,  find  its  mate, 
And  all  the  joys  it  found  so  blissful  here 

Within  that  spirit-realm  perpetuate. 

Yet,  sometimes  o'er  her  trembling  heart-strings  thrill 
Soft  sighs,  for  raptures  it  hath  ne'er  enjoyed, — 

And  then  she  dreams  of  love,  and  strives  to  fill 

With  wild  and  passionate  thoughts  the  craving  void. 

22* 


258  THE    OLD    MAID. 

And  thus  she  wanders  on — half  sad,  half  blest — 
Without  a  mate  for  the  pure,  lonely  heart, 

That,  yearning,  throbs  within  her  virgin  breast, 
Never  to  find  its  lovely  counterpart  1 


THE    BROTHER'S    LAMENT. 

One  moment  more,  beneath  the  old  elm,  Mary, 
Where  last  we  parted  in  the  flowing  dell — 

One  moment  more  through  twilight  tints  that  vary, 
To  gaze  upon  thy  grave,  and  then,  farewell! 

Ere  from  this  spot,  and  these  loved  scenes  I  sever, 
Where  still  thy  lovely  spirit  seems  to  stray — 

One  look — to  fix  them  on  my  soul  forever — 
And  then  away! 

Mary,  I  know  my  steps  should  now  be  shrinking 

From  this  sad  spot — but  on  my  mournful  gaze 
A  scene  floats  up  that  sets  my  soul  to  thinking 

On  all  the  dear  delights  of  other  days ! 
I'm  gazing  on  the  little  foot-bridge  yonder, 

Thrown  o'er  the  stream  whose  waters  purl  below, 
Where  I  so  oft  have  seen  thee  pause  and  ponder, 

Leaning  thy  white  brow  on  thy  hand  of  snow. 


260  the   brother's   lament. 

I'm,  standing  on  the  spot  where  last  we  parted, 
Where,  as  I  left  thee  in  the  fragrant  dell, 

I  saw  thee  turn  so  oft — half  broken-hearted — 
Waving  thy  hand  in  token  of  farewell. 

I  start  to  meet  thy  footstep  light  and  airy — 

But — the  cold  grass  waves  o'er  thy  sweet  young  head 

Would  that  the  shroud  that  wraps  thy  fair  form,  Mary, 
Wrapped  mine  instead! 


In  vain  my  heart  its  bitter  thoughts  would  parry, 

An  adder's  grasp  about  its  chords  seems  curled, 
For  you  were  all  I  ever  thought  of,  Mary — 

Were  all  I  doted  on  in  this  wide  world! 
And  yet,  I'd  sigh  not  while  thy  fate  I  ponder, 

Did  memory  only  bring  thee  to  my  eyes 
Pale  as  thou  sleepest  in  the  churchyard  yonder — 

Or  as  an  angel  dazzling  from  the  skies! 
I  then  at  least  could  treasure  each  sweet  token 

Of  thy  pure  love — and  in  life's  mad'ning  whirl 
Steel  my  crushed  heart — had  not  thine  own  been  broken, 
Poor  hapless  girl! 


THE     BROTHER'S     LAMENT.  261 

But,  Mary — Mary,  when  I  think  upon  thee, 
As  when  I  last  beheld  thee  in  thy  pride — 

And  on  the  fate — O  God! — to  which  he  won  thee — 
I  curse  the  hour  that  sent  me  from  your  side! 

0  why  wert  thou  so  richly,  strangely  gifted 
With  mortal  loveliness  beyond  compare? 

The  look  of  love  beneath  thy  lashes  lifted — 

Its  fatal  sweetness  was  to  thee  a  snare! 
Yet  sleep,  my  sister — I  will  not  upbraid  thee — 

Thou  wert  too  sweet — too  innocently  dear; 
But  he — the  exulting  demon  who  betrayed  thee — 

He  lives,  he  lives,  and  I  am  loitering  here! 
Even  now  some  happier  fair  one's  chains  may  bind  him 

In  dalliance  sweet — but  I'll  avenge  thee  well! 
Avenge  thee? — Yes!   a  brother's  curse  will  find  him, 

Though  he  should  dive  into  the  deeps  of  hell ! 

1  swear  it,  sister — as  thou  art  forgiven — 

By  all  our  wrongs — by  all  our  severed  ties, 
And  by  the  blessedness  of  yon  blue  heaven, 

That  gives  its  world  of  azure  to  mine  eyes! 
By  all  my  love — by  every  sacred  duty 

A  brother  owes — and  by  yon  heaving  sod, 


262       the  brother's  lament. 

Thine  early  grave— and  by  thy  blighted  beauty, 
Thou  sweetest  angel  in  the  realms  of  God! 

I  swear  it,  by  the  bursting  groans  I  smother, 
And  call  on  Heaven  and  thee  to  nerve  me  now. 

Mary,  look  down! — behold  thy  wretched  brother, 
And  bless  the  vow! 

Sister,  my  soul  its  last  farewell  is  taking, 

And  I  for  this  had  thought  it  nerved  to-night, 
But  every  chord  about  my  heart  seems  breaking, 

And  blinding  tears  shut  out  the  glimmering  sight. 
One  look — one  last  long  look  to  hill  and  meadow — 

To  the  old  foot-bridge  and  the  murmuring  mill, 
And  to  the  churchyard  sleeping  in  the  shadow — 

Cease  tears — and  let  these  fond  eyes  look  their  fill! 
One  look — and  now  farewell  ye  scenes  that  vary 

Beneath  the  twilight  shades  that  round  me  flow! 
The  charm  that  bound  my  wild  heart  here,  was  Mary- 
And  she  lies  low! 


ONE    WORD    WITH    THEE. 

One  word  with  thee — one  sweet  yet  mournful  meeting. 

If  but  to  catch  again  thy  low  sad  tone, 
And  clasp  thy  hand,  and  feel  its  warm  pulse  beating 

With  love's  delicious  throb  against  my  own! 
If  but  to  catch  thine  eye,  and  hear  thee  say — 
"I  will  remember  thee  when  far  away." 

One  word  with  thee — though  not  of  hope  or  gladness, 
On  which  to  muse  when  we  are  far  apart; 

A  whisper — breathed  in  silence  and  in  sadness — 
To  leave  a  hush  forever  on  my  heart! 

One  word — to  treasure  in  my  bosom-core, 

Whether  we  meet  again,  or  meet  no  more. 


264  ONE  WORD  WITH  THEE. 

One  word  with  thee — though  it  may  be  to  sever 
The  last  sweet  link  that  binds  thy  soul  to  mine, 

And  tear  me  from  thy  burning  heart  forever, 
To  place  another  on  its  shattered  shrine! 

One  word — to  treasure  in  my  bosom-core, 

Whether  we  meet  again,  or  meet  no  more. 

One  word  with  thee — one  brief  yet  blissful  meeting 
To  catch  thy  voice,  where  last  we  met  alone; 

Whose  faintest  sigh  can  set  this  heart  to  beating 
With  thoughts  and  feelings  that  it  dare  not  own! 

One  word — O  God  of  bliss,  and  can  it  be 

That  it  may  be  our  last? — One  word  with  thee! 


THE    END. 


ELEGANT  EDITIONS 


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Erin.  Every  thing  lives,  moves,  and  speaks,  in'his  poetry.  His  thoughts  are  as  many  and  as  bright 
as  the  insects  that  people  the  sunbeam.     He  exhausts  by  being  inexhaustible." — Hazlitt. 

"  Thomas  Moore  has  unquestionably  attained  the  highest  reputation  as  a  lyric  poet.  *         * 

*******  In  grace,  both  of  thought  and  diction,  in  easy  fluent  wit,  in 
melody,  in  brilliancy  of  fancy,  in  warmth  and  depth  of  sentiment,  no  one  is  superior  to  Moore  ;  his 
celebrated  oriental  romance,  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  the  four  tales  to  which  and  the  frame-work  which  unites 
them  having  been  compared,  in  the  '  Edinburgh  Review,'  to  four  beautiful  pearls  joined  together  by  a 
thread  of  silk  and  gold." 

THE    COMPLETE 

POETICAL  WORKS  OF  ROBERT  SOUTHEY,  Esq.,  LL.  D. 

The  ten  volume  London  edition,  in  one  elegant  volume,  royal  8vo.     Illustrated 
with  a  Portrait  and  several  fine  Steel  Engravings.     Cloth,  $3  50. 

Contents. — Joan  of  Arc,  Juvenile  and  Minor  Poems,  Thalaba  the  Destroyer, 
Madoc,  Ballads  and  Metrical  Tales,  The  Curse  of  Kehama,  Roderick  the  last  ot 
the  Goths,  The  Poet's  Pilgrimage  to  Waterloo,  Lay  of  the  Laureate,  Vision  ot 
Judgment,  Oliver  Newman,  &c. 

This  edition,  which  the  author  has  arranged  and  revised  with  the  same  care  as  if  it  were  intended 
for  posthumous  publication,  includes  many  pieces  which  either  have  never  before  been  collected,  or 
have  hitherto  remained  unpublished. 

Preliminary  notices  are  affixed  to  the  long  poems,  the  whole  of  the  notes  retained,  and  such  ad 
ditional  ones  incorporated  as  the  author,  since  the  first  publication,  has  seen  occasion  to  insert. 

"  The  beauties  of  Mr.  Southey's  poetry  are  such,  that  this  edition  can  hardly  fail  to  find  a  piaco 
iu  the  library  of  every  man  fond  of  elegant  literature."— Eclectic  Review. 


Appleton's  Poetical  Publications. 


A   NEW,   COMPLETE,   AND   ELEGANT   EDITION   OF 

THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

WITH  A  SKETCH  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

ILLUSTRATED    WITH    FINE     STEEL    ENGRAVINGS    AND    A    PORTRAIT. 

One  volume,  16mo.     Price  $1  25  in  muslin  ;  or  silk,  gilt  leaves,  $2  ;  or  Turkey 
morocco,  $2  50. 

This  new  edition  of  the  Poetical  Works  of  Campbell,  is  issued  uniformly  with  Cary's  Translation 
of  Dante,  and  Wiffen's  Tasso  ;  a  style  of  publication  both  elegant  and  convenient.  The  Poetry  of 
Campbell  is  universally  felt,  and,  therefore,  universally  appreciated.  His  subjects  have  all  been  skil- 
fully chosen  ;  he  has  sought  for  themes  only  where  a  pure  mind  seeks  them  ;  he  is  truly  the  poet  of 
the  fair  sex.  There  are  no  works  which  are  more  relished  by  cultivated  females.  His  mind  has  the 
refinement  of  the  female  intellect,  added  to  the  energy  of  the  classic  man. 

A   NEW   AND    HANDSOMELY   PRINTED   EDITION   OF 

HUDIBRAS;    BY   SAMUEL    BUTLER. 

WITH  NOTES  AND  A  LITERARY  MEMOIR  BY  THE  REV.  T.  R.  NASH,  D.D. 

Illustrated  with  Steel  Portrait. 

One  volume,  16mo.     Cloth,  price  $1  50  ;  silk,  $2  25  ;  morocco,  $3. 

Little  or  no  apology  need  be  offered  to  the  public  for  presenting  it  with  a  new  edition  of  Hudibras. 
The  poem  ranks  too  high  in  English  Literature,  not  to  be  welcomed,  if  it  apjiears  in  a  correct,  legible 
type,  and  on  good  paper.  Ever  since  its  first  appearance  it  has  been  as  a  mirror,  in  which  an  Eng- 
lishman might  have  seen  his  face,  without  becoming,  Narcissus-like,  enamoured  of  it.  Such  an 
honest  looking-glass  must  ever  be  valuable,  if  there  be  worth  in  the  aphorism,  nosce  teipsum. 

A   NEW,   COMPLETE,   AND   PORTABLE   EDITION   OF 

THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  FELICIA  HEMANS. 

Printed  entire  from  the  last  London  Edition. 

EDITED   BY   HER   SISTER. 

Illustrated  with  Ten  Steel  Engravings. 

Two  volumes,  16mo,  neatly  bound  in  cloth,  $2  50  ;  silk,  gilt  leaves,  $4 ; 

morocco  extra,  $5. 

This  is  the  only  edition  of  the  complete  Works  of  Mrs.  Hemans  published  in 
this  country,  which  contains  the  entire  Works  as  edited  by  her  Sister. 

"  Of  this  highly  accomplished  Poetess  it  has  been  truly  said,  that  of  all  her  sex,  '  few  have  written 
so  much  and  so  well.'  Although  her  writings  possess  an  energy  enual  to  their  hiirh-toned  beauty,  yet 
they  are  so  pure  and  so  refined,  that  not  a  line  of  them  could  feeling  spare  or  delicacy  blot  from  her 

Cages.  Her  imagination  was  rich,  chaste,  and  glowing.  Her  chosen  themes  are  the  cradle,  the 
earth-stone,  and  the  death-bed.  In  her  poems  of  Cceur  de  Lion,  Ferdinand  of  Aragon,  and  Bernard 
del  Carnio,  we  see  beneath  the  glowing  colors  with  which  she  clothes  her  ideas,  the  feelings  of  a 
woman* a  heart.  Her  earlier  poems,  Records  of  Woman  and  Forest  Sanctuary  /  stand  unrivalled. 
In  short,  her  works  will  ever  be  read  by  a  pious  and  enlightened  community." 


Appleton's  Poetical  Publications. 


THE  VISION  OF  HELL,  PURGATORY,  AND  PARADISE, 

OF    DANTE    ALIGHIERI.' 

Translated  by  the  Rev.  Henry  Cary,  A.M. 

With  a  Life  of  Dante,  Chronological  View  of  his  Age,  Additional  Notes  and  Index, 

Illustrated  with  Twelve  Steel   Engravings,  from  Designs  by  John 

Flaxman,  R.A.,  and  a  finely  engraved  Portrait.     One 

elegantly  printed  volume,  16mo,  $1  50. 

"  Can's  Translation  of  the  Vision  of  Dante  is  among  the  few  immortal  works  destined  to  survive 
through  all  time,  which  are  little  known  to  our  reading  public.  The  Messrs.  Appleton  have  there- 
fore done  good  service  in  reproducing  it  here  for  the  first  time,  in  a  style  worthy  of  its  intrinsic  merit. 
It  is  an  elegant  copy  of  the  latest  corrected  London  edition,  including  Flaxman's  famous  outline  il- 
lustrations, numerous  explanatory  notes,  a  memoir  of  the  author,  with  a  copy  of  the  '  Lost  Portrait,' 
a  useful  chronological  index,  and  an  index  of  the  proper  names  used  in  the  text.  The  portrait  js  a 
study  of  intellectual  beauty  and  grace,  and  the  volume  is  altogetheran  exceedingly  beautiful  specimen 
of  American  typography." 

THE  JERUSALEM  DELIVERED 

OF    TORQTJATO   TASSO. 

Translated  into  English  Spenserian  verse,  with  a  Life  of  the  Author,  by 

BY    J.    H.    WIFFEN. 

Two  volumes  of  the  last  London  edition,  reprinted  in  one  elegant  16mo  volume, 
illustrated  with  a  finely-engraved  Portrait  and  several  beautiful  Steel  Engravings. 
$1  50. 

"  This  elegant  Poem  abounds  with  all  the  pleasing  description  of  tender  scenes,  the  animated  re- 
presentation of  battles,  and  the  majestic  flow  of  language,  which  so  much  captivate  and  overpower 
the  reader  in  the  pages  of  Homer  and  Virgil. 

"  Mr.  Wifl'en  s  version  has  long  since  been  conceded  to  be  the  best  ever  given  of  the  great  Poet ; 
he  catches  and  portrays  the  spirit  of  the  author  with  a  feeling  the  most  kindred  and  congenial." 

GEMS  FROM  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Containing  Selections  from  nearly  one  hundred  Writers 

Among  which  are — Bryant,  Halleck,  Longfellow,  Percival,  Whittier,  Sprague 

Brainerd,  Dana,  Willis,  Pinckney,  Allston,  Hillhouse,  Mrs.  Sigourney, 

L.  M.  Davidson,  Lucy  Hooper,  Mrs.  Embury,  Mrs.  Hale,  etc.,  etc. 

One  vol.  32mo,  frontispiece,  gilt  leaves,  37£  cts. 

Forming  one  of  the  series  of  "  Miniature  Classical  Library. 


Appleton's  Poetical  Publications, 


THE    COMPLETE 

POETICAL    WORKS    OF    ROBERT    BURNS. 

With  Explanatory  and  Glossarial  Notes,  and  a  Life  of  the  Author. 

By  James  Currie,  M.  D.    Illustrated  with  six  Steel  Engravings. 

16mo,  $1  25. 

Forming  one  of  the  series  of  "  Cabinet  Edition  of  Standard  British  Poets." 

This  is  the  most  complete  American  edition  of  Burns.    It  contains  the  whole  of  the  poetry  com- 

Erised  in  the  edition  lately  edited  by  Cunningham,  as  well  as  some  additional  pieces  ;  and  such  notes 
ave  been  added  as  are  calculated  to  illustrate  the  manners  and  customs  of  Scotland,  so  as  to  render 
the  whole  more  intelligible  to  the  English  reader. 


THE  COMPLETE 

POETICAL  WORKS  OF  WILLIAM  COWPER,  Esq. 

Including  the  Hymns  and  Translations  from  Mad.  Guion,  Milton,  etc.,  and  Adam, 

a  Sacred  Drama,  from  the  Italian  of  Battista  Andreini,  with  a  Memoir 

of  the  Author.     By  the  Rev.  Henry  Stebbing,  A.  M. 

One  vol.  l6mo,  800  pages,  $1  50  ;  or  in  2  vols.,  $1  75. 

Forming  one  of  the  series  of  "  Cabinet  Edition  of  Standard  British  Poets." 

"  Morality  never  found  in  genius  a  more  devoted  advocate  than  Cowper,  nor  has  moral  wisdom, 
in  its  plain  and  severe  precepts,  been  ever  more  successfully  combined  with  the  delicate  spirit  of  poetry 
than  in  his  vorks.  He  was  endowed  with  all  the  powers  which  a  poet  could  want  who  was  to  be  the 
moralist  of  the  world — the  reprover,  but  not  the  satirist,  of  men — the  teacher  of  simple  truths,  which 
were  to  be  rendered  gracious  without  endangering  their  simplicity." 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

BT    FELICIA    HEMANS. 

One  vol.  32mo,  gilt,  31  cts. 
Forming  one  of  the  series  of  "  Miniature  Classical  Library." 

RECORDS    OF    THE    HEART. 


BY  SARAH  ANNA  LEWIS. 


1  vol.  !2mo,  $1. 


H  We  have  read  some  of  the  pieces  with  much  pleasure.  They  indicate  poetic  genius  of  no  ordi 
nary  kind,  and  are  imbned  with  much  feeling  and  pathos.  We  welcome  the  volume  as  a  creditable 
accession  to  the  poetic  literature  of  the  country." — Boston  Traveller. 


Appletori 's  Poetical  Publications. 


POEMS. 

BY  WILLIAM  W.  LORD. 

12mo,  illuminated  cover,  75  cts. 

Extract  of  a  late  private  Letter  from  Mr.  Wordsworth,  the  venerable  Poet-laureate  of  England, 
to  the  Rt.  Rev.  Bishop  Doane,  of  New- Jersey : — 
"  I  have  to  thank  yon  for  several  specimens  of  the  abilities  of  a  young  poet  (Mr.  Lord),  which 
seem  to  me  of  high  promise.     They  are  full  of  deep  emotion,  and  not  wanting  in  vigorous  and  har 
monious  versification." 


IRISH    MELODIES. 

BY  THOMAS  MOORE. 

With  the  original  Prefatory  Letter  on  Music.     From  the  13th  London  edition. 

Miniature  volume,  price  38  cts. 

Forming  a  portion  of  the  uniform  series  of  "  Miniature  Classical  Library." 

LALLA  ROOKH ; 

An  Original  Romance.     By  Thomas  Moore. 
One  volume,  32mo,  frontispiece,  cloth  gilt,  38  cts. 
Forming  a  portion  of  the  series  of  "  Miniature  Classical  Library." 
This  exquisite  poem  has  long  been  the  admiration  of  readers  of  all  classes. 

THE  COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  JOHN  MILTON. 

With  Explanatory  Notes  and  a  Life  of  the  Author,  by  the  Rev.  Henry 
Stebbing,  A.  M.     Illustrated  with  six  Steel  Engravings. 

One  vol.  16mo,  $1  25. 
Forming  one  of  the  series  of  "  Cabinet  Edition  of  Standard  Poets." 
O"  The  Latin  and  Italian  Poems  are  included  in  this  edition. 

Mr.  Stebbing's  Notes  will  be  found  very  useful  in  elucidating  the  learned  allusions  with  which  the 
text  abounds,  and  they  are  also  valuable  for  the  correct  appreciation  with  which  the  writer  directt 
attention  to  the  beauties  of  the  author. 


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